


Sad Tales Best Forgotten

by Book_of_Kells



Series: One Love, One Lifetime [2]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Group Sex, M/M, Multi, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-04
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2018-05-04 21:22:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 32,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5348975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Book_of_Kells/pseuds/Book_of_Kells
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>These are side stories to my main body of work, The Land of Might Have Been</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tauriel

**Author's Note:**

> When you love someone, you'll sacrifice  
> Giving everything you got & you won't think Twice
> 
>  
> 
> Warning ! This chapter contains threats of rape and physical harm.. Read at your own risk.

She landed the punch squarely, pushing the Dwarrow back a step. The Iron Dwarf snarled at her, swinging at her with the mattock in his hand, though it struck his friend behind her with no damage to herself. Shoving the heavy Dwarf at her back against the wall beside them furthered his open wound, stunning him to give her an opportunity for the long knife at his belt. She had no wish to kill them, the attack had come from nowhere but they were Dwarves, possibly Kili’s family. If she took a life, the Durin’s Folk would never accept her.

No matter the love their prince bore for her, a Silvan Elf.

Grabbing a long black chin braid, twisting the thinly plaited rope about her hand to snap the Dwarf’s head forward and bash him with the hilt of the knife she had stolen. The mattock clanged ineffectually on stone as the Dwarf shook his shaggy head in an attempt to break free. He lost his wits, this Dwarrow, she thought, running through five different scenarios on how she use this to an advantage if he thought to cut the braid him himself rather than let her continue to use it like a leash.

But he wouldn’t, it was hair after all. His hair, his braid.

Tauriel slashed the fingers of the upper hand on the mattock’s hilt, not enough to cut off the fingers. His howl in the quiet expanse of the hall was startling for it had been mostly quiet until that moment. Repeatedly, she slammed the hilt in what she thought might be vital areas to be rewarded by a chant of winded grunts. The neck, under the arm, above the plate armor, the bridge of his nose. This Dwarf wore no helm, neither did his comrade, rolling on the floor behind her. Their eyes were much better in the dark than open sun. A blessing of Mahal to his stone born progeny.

 _All of this for a few apples_ ….

Kili had snuck out earlier after his cousin Dain arrived from the Iron Hills. The Ironfoot had marched his army hard to supposedly come to the aid of Thorin against his enemies. Kili had expressed his doubts in light of the fact that Dain hadn’t offered much in the way of help since he lost his father at the battle of Azanulbizar so long ago. The Iron Dwarves had brought better food and supplies for the bedraggled company of Thorin Oakenshield. Hunches of venison they slew on the way with sides of beef and barrels of mead and beer. It was the sack of apples and pears for roasting that caught her interest or more so, her child’s.

She was bearing, Tauriel knew it to be true. The song of their child, hers and Kili grew beneath her heart. She couldn’t deny what it was, would never dream that she give her love to a child and so soon. He, for his demanding bass notes were definitely masculine, craved the soft flesh of the apples, keeping her from sleep. To appease her craving, she had ventured out from their quiet hideaway Kili had claimed once they arrived.

Turning aside every punch to her torso that it didn’t land at her womb was becoming harder. The escape was blocked by a partial cavein due to a Dragon’s rampage to kill the Mountain’s inhabitants. These blights of bastardly annoyance had found a goodly place to ambush her, taking her unaware while she sang to her babe. There had been no words of arrest, just the throwing of weapons at her body. No, she thought as she kicked the downed male in the face to keeping him from rising, you shall not hurt me, I resist! Tauriel to put her back to the cave in to battle the last Dwarf singularly.

Slicing the opposite wrist forced the Dwarf to drop the weapon, giving the Elf an opportunity to kick it down the length of the hall behind him. Wrenching him forward, the momentum plowed him into the masonry with a sickening crunch. He tugged back hard in a frantic effort to be free but the roots of his beard gave finally. The taught cord of hair went slack, making her lip curl in distaste.

“You’ve ripped my allegiance braid, you fey bitch!” The enraged Dwarf grabbed a piece of the stone that lay beside him, chucking it at her.

Tauriel spun away but met the blunt end of club swing at her face by a dark Dwarf in mail. She staggered, barely upright. Breathing heavily at the ringing in her ears, she leaped back in an effort to run away but the one who lost his braid slammed a gloved fist at her nose. Down to a knee from the stunning blow but not out of the fight, Tauriel grazed the inner thigh of the new arrival with the club. It was shallow but he still bellowed like a wounded bear, the Elf got to her feet only to have them kicked out from under her.

“Hold!” The Dwarf with the club snarled, as Tauriel stared at the knife descending to her throat. He had some authority for the point would have kept going, cutting away at her neck instead of the flesh wound.

“She yanked out my allegiance braid!” The bloody welt dripped louder in the gloom then she might have expected. “I want an eye for it!”

The Dark Dwarf sighed. “You were to bring her to Thorin only. No killing or maiming, the King has spoken.”

“Had they asked instead of immediately setting upon me, this one would have his braid.” Tauriel told them quietly from her prone position.

The grumbling continued while they tied her, first her hands, then around her body. An Elf had no place here, their voices rasped in the somber light. What was Kili about, keeping a pet sprite when he will have Dwarrowdam’s fighting each other to claim him? The thought of Dwarf women trying to take her love made her fidget as they walked to some unknown place. To the Oakenshield, the Dark one had said, the King under the Mountain had commanded her brought. But he sent the order by Iron Dwarves and not his company. It was a puzzle.

He could not want your women, Tauriel stayed her thoughts, not speaking them aloud. Her arguments would be met with violence. The Dwarves yanked her forward, trying to make her fall though her grace saved her. Nimbly, she skipped over a pile of rock to yank the Dwarf behind her forward and make him stumble. Their comrade they left in the hall at the scene of the ambush, more concern with getting her to Thorin than his unconscious state.

Her nose and mouth hurt from the blows, the sting spread along the side of her face. Tauriel grunted slightly when the rope found a bare patch of skin and chafed it. The hurts of her training years then the time spent as a Captain had been more rigorous. Her child changed what she could withstand, what she knew to be an acceptable level of pain. Tauriel had to protect him, his song was glorious to her and there was nothing more important to her than that except Kili’s life.

Not her vows to Thranduil as a member of his guard, nor the exile that was surely to follow. She loved another, foresworn herself to be with him. It didn’t hurt as it should, that she had walked away from her entire life to be here. The pain at the thought of Kili dying had been much harsher, a grit sanding her control until it shined her purpose in stark relief. No, Tauriel felt no joy at breaking those vows to her kind but she refused to allow Kili to die.

The journey ended in a square expanse, two stories tall. The sheer size of Erebor amazed her from what little she had seen. Thranduil had only ever brought few attendants when he treated with the Dwarves, leaving the rest outside the Great Gates. A large squared fireplace blazed red and gold with broken furniture and rags used for fuel. A table of middling size stood to the left with a Dwarf she didn’t know seated where he could watch the door. There were bits of meat in his grey struck beard made greasy by the turkey leg he was gnawing on like a rabid dog. Whatever thoughts she had of apples or pears fled, swallowing back the gorge that threatened took all of her concentration.

The white haired Dwarf that had been her prisoner once, was seated across from the Dwarf who continued to stuff himself in a most gluttonous manner. The older Dwarf swiveled on the long bench to take her measure but it was Thorin Oakenshield at the head, sitting back in his high backed chair that scared her the most.

“I had hoped to be wrong.” He growled, shoving back the chair to stand before the table. “I hoped my sister son would not be so stupid as to invite an Elf, Thranduil’s jailer no less, to my Mountain!”

The words spat her had been soft at the start, gaining volume and supremacy until the whole room froze as the King under the Mountain shook with in his wrath. Tauriel forced some steel into her spine while the mighty head of Durin’s folk tracked her with predatory gleam. She said nothing to him, permitting his display. Too many years serving or surviving the Elven King had educated her that some males enjoyed the postulating and the sound of their own voice. Thorin Oakenshield was no different it seemed.

“Leave her to my men. They can cut her down to size. Hump what’s left if they have a yen for Elvish gash.” The glutton continued to stuff his face with a good sized leg of lamb even while he spoke, food falling to the plate below. His beady attention was squarely on her and her reaction. “The younger will not want her after she has been plowed good and proper by a sounder. Likely, _she_ won’t want him after she’s had a good rooting!”

Crude laughter followed to draw forth the bile that threaten her mouth. _Rape_. The idea of such a violation was anathema to her, to all Elves. It would end her life and her child before he took his first breath. This Dwarf liked suffering, this she could tell, from the disgusting animation he pantomimed from his seat. He had no issue holding her down for his men to take turns. Or worse, pushing her from the Mountain to allow his men to chase her from her love.

Kili! Tears stung at her eyes, trying to find a path down her face though she denied them. Try as she might, the grimace didn’t show, no thanks to the acidity coating the back of her throat. He had not told his uncle of her presence, though the others save his brother, Fili, might have had a loosened tongue. The looks they gave her in the boat had been friendly enough, each quiet in their own way. Fili had been the most accepting, taking Kili’s other side when they made the long walk from the Lake’s edge to the Mountain. But how did they feel now, that the company was together again?

Thorin took a swallow of his goblet, closing his eyes to the taste. Whatever filled the cup, it didn’t account for the watery glass that now stood for his eyes, the lackluster haze that turned the once startling blue to milky distortion. Those eyes, they belonged to someone else, someone merciless with untapped stores of cruelty. His manner was deliberate but she couldn’t guess at the hateful pit of his thoughts.

“No, cousin. I won’t foul my Mountain with even the slightest drop of her, be it the blood or the spent from between her legs.” He seethed at her flashing teeth in a black beard. “No! She will go, oh yes. She will. Thranduil’s guard dog will run home to her master. Kili will forget once we burn their den of unnatural lust and life will be as it should.” Thorin filled up a tankard, then took a short sword from the table beside him. “Or I will take her to the Overlook, and part her head from her body.”

He meant it, each word and every action behind them. There was no reason in his mind, he was utterly mad. Thorin Oakenshield would kill her before his family, feeling justified in dispelling the unwanted. This she could not do, would never allow. Quickly, frantically, she tried to think of her choices, at the angles of where each maneuver could land her. It was a dance in a spider’s nest and each step might be her doom.

“If I leave, you will not hurt me?” Tauriel had to ask, to clarify the King’s words.

The white haired Dwarf shook his head, rising from his seat. Dain Ironfoot for he could be no one else, tried to entreat him to stay but the aged male would have none of it. He looked to Thorin, started to say something but shook his head again and left by a side door. His passing might well have stripped what little restraint these Dwarves possessed.

“You will live. The mountain will bear witness to my word.” Thorin still held the sword at her, assessing. “As long as you leave at dawn and ever set foot on my Mountain or Dale. My Hobbit asks for very little, so this is no effort.”

Bilbo, the burglar who had managed to get the Dwarves out of Thranduil’s jails. Tauriel might have been keen to make the halfling’s acquaintance for that alone but now she could kiss him for the intervention. She just had to get out of here, far away and await her Dwarf. Thranduil would not allow her to come home, not now after her rash flight to save Kili. He would reject her for bearing a half Elven child of Dwarf parentage, so deep was his hatred. However, there were other places in Arda, lands that might take in a stray Elf, her Dwarven husband and their son.

“Then I will make the oath and go.” The words hurt, but their son needed her protection and he would have all that she could give. His father would come too, when Kili heard, taking up the sword and protect him.

Her beating heart pounded her chest, a caged bird attempting freedom. Her child’s song clashed with sour ringing when the oath was given. Mayhap he didn’t approve, not happy at leaving the stone and the mountain’s pressure. Her fingers shook, wanting to comfort him. All would be well, this wasn’t the end. She possessed so much faith, so much gasping want for a life with the black haired Dwarf who made her see things in a different light. Tauriel looked in Thorin’s crazed eyes and knew she had been a fool to think she might stay here, that things might have turned out well for them in Erebor.

The further they were from this place, the better she would feel. Orcs had chased Thorin’s company into Esgaroth, beaten away by Tauriel and Legolas. The ones that escaped would return with reinforcements, perhaps the pale Orc would be leading them. Thorin as far as she knew had not sent the agreed gold to the desolate people who survived Smaug’s burning of Laketown. The swelling anger the bad decisions that the Oakenshield made might explode upon them at any time.

“Swear by your stars, she Elf!” The Oakenshield snarled still, shaking the sword at her.

Tauriel hesitated, unsure of this avenue the mad Dwarf travelled. Thorin had known this to ask for a Silvan Elf to swear by the light they deemed most pure, the living heart of memory to them. There was nothing in this world or the next that could make her give so much to him. What right did he have to ask? Was her love for Kili, guileless and true, so very terrible? What life would their babe have had in this fortress of old hates and cruel intentions? What life could Kili have with Thorin after she left? Tauriel could not abandon him, yet there was nothing else for it. But he would come for her, and she would await him.

“I agree.” Tauriel nodded, wondering at the last for what she had just done. Seeing the smirking Dwarrows sparked her anger. “But you should know. If he seeks me out, I will not stand aside for you. I will not turn my back to him nor cast him away. I love him, and that is worth more than all your gold and gems!”

Thorin reared back but then his eyes narrowed. The regard continued for a few moments, a lifetime for all the nerves that Tauriel swallowed to keep her calm facade. No one had noticed the braids in her hair, nor the beads at the bottom. She wouldn’t call attention to them now, they were a promise to her but maybe be a death sentence for him. The Ironfoot at the table didn’t help the situation, throwing things at her with all the aim of a child having a tantrum though he had no true aim. His verbal attempt to intimidate her with sodomy and other physical abuse rattled her deeply. The Dwarves who held her ropes rustled uneasily, making her wonder how much control this mad Dwarf carried in his own halls.

“You won’t take my family, Elf. This I promise you!” Quick as a snake, Thorin lashed out to strike her a backhand on an already hurting face. The Dwarves chortled, wanting more violence on her person. “That was so you remember it.”


	2. Legolas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But your lonely nights have just begun  
>  When you love someone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story starts at the end when Bilbo and the others get Tauriel down from the Overlook and he is trying to find her help..
> 
> Graphic descriptions..

Legolas ran…

He ran faster than he had when he let loose of himself to catch Tauriel, quicker than his headlong flight to catch the Orcs when he left her in Laketown.

The Brown Wizard was a jumble of words, all mismatched and tangled up like his disorganized thoughts. His robes were stained by animal droppings and scat for a truly disgusting halo of smell. At this point, Legolas had wanted to step away, breath deeper then try again to understand Radagast, the forest hermit. A gentle soul he might be but the rail of chirping and chattering from the Wizard’s various pockets served to almost give him a headache. It took time but Legolas finally understood three words in his magpie speech.  

Scarlet Haired Elf.

_Tauriel_

With his heart in his throat, he had leapt away, running at full tilt to the direction that Radagast pointed. It never occurred to him to question this action, to run from his father’s camp. Tauriel needed him, if a Wizard came to him in such a state. Six hundred years against the few weeks of separation, there was no thought that he wouldn’t go. When she stayed with the Laketown people and then left with the Dwarf for the Mountain, Legolas had been at a loss. So many years of shared life, so many feelings he had for her.

Obviously, the young dark archer had failed to take care of her, allowing misfortune to befall his friend. _Friend_? That wasn’t the word he would use, Legolas thought as he took an obstacle, skipping up the side like a blond squirrel. It wasn’t love but it could have been, _once_. Thranduil, the Elven King, his Adar had been quite vocal when Legolas returned to his camp alone, without her. The anger at her rejection of her heritage, the Elves unleashed a torrent vitriol to any who would listen.

Banished

Disavowed

An Exile

Foresworn

Legolas could not say the rest, that Tauriel had lain with the Dwarf and sealed herself to him. Rocks crunched underfoot as he ran, and at once, trying to outrun the memory and pain of his disappointment. Tauriel was with another now, but she needed him so he would go to her. He would try to save her, even from herself.

The vale around Dale to the Overlook was the baked rock he had expected. The broadsword he had taken from the Oakenshield slapped his thigh with a thumping tattoo, off count to his bow strung over his shoulder. As a Sindar Prince of his years, he knew this region well, walked it years beyond counting. He had seen Dwarves come and go, his father try in his way to have a treaty of sorts with each Dwarven King. It was Thror who had stuck the knife point the deepest when he refused to part with the white gems, hoarding them away to be part of a Dragon’s plunder. Now, the once beautiful valley was a scorched ruin, no matter how many years it had been since the Dragon tread here.

A scream rent the air not far away, a female scream of pain that sounded of Tauriel. Wind blinded him as he pushed harder up a rise, his blond hair a cyclone at his back. Sindarin, he thought, Silvan, Noldorin. All Elves, yet his father would have him look down on them, for not all were royal. He would have something to say for the danger of helping a lowly Silvan that was newly banished. The Sindar prince crested the rise to see a pony pulling a litter being led by what he thought might be a Halfling. Legolas just caught the flash of red behind the grey animal.

His lungs burned from the exertion from having run all the way from the Elven camp at the west side of lake shore. He was an Elf, light and built for such travel but his fear for her had destroyed his calm, pushed to move faster than was prudent. The miniature male waived his arms when he noticed Legolas coming at a harsh pace. Most definitely a Hobbit, he thought, seeing the abnormally large feet and no boots. Very large hairy feet.

“Over here!” The Hobbit yelled but stepped back quickly when Legolas came near.

He was a fidgety thing, twisting the lead rope to the pony who snorted wildly at the Elf before her. His clothes couldn’t be warm enough here on the Desolation, the shorten pants and exposed, very hairy feet. A nervous creature, he kept looking at the endless flock of Ravens that circled in the upper currents to watch the proceedings upon the plain. The wind brushed his curls, warmed honey in the morning light. But the bruising at his neck was troubling as was the darting quality of his gaze.

“She’s hurt, um. Please, can you help her like she did Kili?” The Hobbit darted to the litter kneeling down when a wounded moan sounded quietly in greeting.

Legolas walked hurriedly to the rear of the animal to gasp in pain. Tauriel writhed on the blanketed surface, her face a mass of colored bruising and blood. An arm crossed her lower belly as a light cry escaped her. Fear for her life, anger at who might have harmed her spoke volumes on his mental state for it took a moment to see the sinister black arrow piked in her upper thigh. A Morgal Shaft..

“Hurts,” She moaned behind clenched teeth. “Cold hurts.”

The Elf Prince knelt on the other side to the Hobbit. He placed a hand on her face, pulling back at the cold sensation. “Who has done this? That Dwarf she left with? Who has injured her in this fashion?”

Boiling hot anger soaked his thoughts, the Hobbit shrank away from him. Obviously abused in some way by the Dwarves to have so unconscious a reaction. Legolas knew not where the Halfling came or what his business was with Thorin but someone would talk to him about what had happened to his heart friend.

“It..it-it wasn’t Kili, no he..he wouldn’t..far worse happened to him..no..Thorin..I didn’t..” The stammer only angered Legolas further for it told him nothing why she was injured so grievously.

Taking a cloth at her side, Legolas grasped the arrow imbedded in her leg to yank it swiftly. Inky foulness oozed from the white wound when he tore her trouser leg to get a better look. “This should have been down before now! The poison will spread. We must get her herbs and a healer. My..”

The Sindarin stopped himself, Thranduil would be no help here. He would not care if she died now for it had been just this morning he had decreed her faithless and banished for leaving. “Come with me, we must find her shelter and help in Dale.”

The Hobbit looked perplexed, but more scared than anything. “No! She can’t go there, Thorin will track her down and kill her for staying. Can’t you take her to your camp?”

There is no time, Legolas wanted to scream at the Hobbit, not while the bruises continued to bloom across Tauriel’s face. The battle for her soul had begun, pushing the Prince into action. Try as he might, he needed the Halfling’s help and scaring him would not achieve that end. There were few things he could say but honesty would work the best.

“Tauriel abandoned the guard to chase after the injured Dwarf, the dark one. The Elven King has claimed her disavowed. The Greenwood is not her home now.”

The poor Hobbit looked stricken, closing his eyes then hugging himself. The weight of our decisions carry long reaching into the future, a reason that most Elves watched life rather than living it. But he could do something, Legolas could help her now. Despite her chooses, she was still someone he treasured.

“Come, we must hurry. The wound will mortify and kill her Fëa then the Hröa. She will become an Orc without Aethelas to push back the evil that is killing her.” Legolas touched her face, running a hand into her hair. In life, he would never have thought to be so bold with her person.

A wretched gasp and cry as her body slowly cooled while the poison spread. Legolas and the Hobbit hurried away, to the Lake not far for help. A hard jolt would make her moan a name. _Kili_. A begging litany that never brought her Dwarf to her. The further they went, the angrier Legolas became. The Hobbit gave no answers, only saying that Kili had been injured too but his brother had taken him to the mountain. Tauriel had been left outside, like an unwanted thing. Control was what was needed, not the thoughtless anger of a furious Elf.

“Her face is looking worse. These bruises were not there earlier.” The Hobbit walked at Tauriel’s side while Legolas let the pony. “Is she turning into an Orc now?”

“No. Her Hröa is fighting the poison, the energy that would have healed her bruises is now needed elsewhere in her body. Do you know Aethelas? The Kingsfoil weed?” Legolas looked to the little man, seeing him nod. “Find some! I know not the chant she used with the Dwarf, just parts of it. I will do what I can until a healer is found.”

He walked away from the pony looking on the ground as Legolas pulled the animal to pick up the pace. The rocky terrain gave way to dying brown grass, the smell of water coming to him finally. He couldn’t say how long it had been but Tauriel’s condition worried him. If her body expended too much, she would pass into the spirit world and be lost. Her Fëa would have died at the transition, pushing her Hröa to a state of corruption for the malignancy that flowed under her skin.

The Halfling said nothing to Legolas specifically, talking to Tauriel at intervals when he bathed her face. It wasn’t rudeness that closed the little one off, but apprehension it seemed. Legolas didn’t remember him from the capture in the woods, the sword and Dwarves had held his attention. Thinking back, he couldn’t remember seeing him in their party at the time. Legolas had been on hand during the search but there had been no mention of a Hobbit for the guards in the Jails would have gossiped about it while they diced or ate. Once this was done, he would approach the Halfling to see if there might be some assistance the Elves might bring for him.

They rounded a small hill to see an old farmhouse, alive with activity. Two women and a Man were unloading a cart full of drenched possessions. Taking their measure quietly, he saw no malice in them for truly they looked destitute as the others of their race who escaped the Dragon fire. They bunched together in curious fear when he and the little Halfling approached. There was a demolished barn in the back with a collapsed fence that might have been for stock of some sort.

These people had nothing, less than nothing but Legolas would ask nevertheless. Someone would need to help Tauriel and he had the feeling that the Halfing would leave to go back to the Dwarves. The odd little one kept looking over his shoulder now, staring at the Mountain with a strange sort of longing and fear.

“I can see your troubles, though I would ask for help for my friend.” Legolas began as the family shivered closer together. “I would not ask except her need is dire and I must find a healer for her.”

“We would be happy to assist the Fair Folk, sir.” The older woman of the pair, looking at him with the same awe inspired regard that Men of the West possessed at meetings. “There isn’t much but we will share of course.”

Legolas smiled or attempted to before giving them a short bow. “I am in need of Kingsfoil, Aethelas. Have you any?”

“There be some at the back.” The younger woman ran around the side as the Man stepped forward to assist them.

Legolas scooped Tauriel’s flailing body, colder to the touch now than she had been. She would begin to fade, he thought hurrying inside the dim room. Sunlight broke in patches through the holes in the roof, years of neglect was slowly dismantling the structure like the outside barn. A decent sized table lay pressed against the far wall, with two chairs still on their sides. Animal droppings littered the floor, long ago creatures looking for shelter of the night.

The couple had begun to get situated, a small fire burned in the stone hearth with a kettle to one side. “Halfling, get some water going.”

“My name is Bilbo.” A grumble started from him but he did as Legolas told him. He grabbed the kettle running outside, narrowly missing the younger girl who came back

Shyly, the girl handed him a bunch of the weed, their small white flowers almost brilliant against the darker green. Legolas grabbed a piece of crockery, shaking away the dust to begin ripping down the stems and leaves. Tauriel was better at this, he thought, grabbing a small blade from his boot to use the hilt to mash the greenery still further. She had always understood the healing lore better than he. Apart from her and a few others who crafted well with herbs, there had been no need for him to apply himself. If there were injured when they hunted foul creatures, someone else would tend to the wounded leaving him free to be in command. Such inattention didn’t befit a truly good leader, not when he could have used that knowledge now to save Tauriel.

The Hobbit, Bilbo, ran back inside with a full kettle, his large feet thumping the ground. He had a worried air that concerned him. “What troubles you? The Dwarves?”

“No.” He said quietly, starting to shake at their mention. “I thought I saw.. well..I thought I saw someone riding a deer.”

A coldness, deeper that what emanated from Tauriel stole over his body. “Did the deer have a wide flat rack?”

“Yes.” Bilbo held out the kettle, pouring as much as Legolas indicated as he stirred. “I didn’t know..”

“It’s the Elven King astride his nenrais, the frost antler. He rides him to war.”

Seeing the greenery in a fine mash thanks to his efforts, he set aside his knife. The moment came, leaving him berefit, wondering if there was enough in him to do this. Legolas walked to Tauriel and smeared the coating on her wound. She started whimpering immediately, the two women took her arms to hold her still. Pressing his hand to the wound, Legolas chanted a prayer of grace for her, calling Iluvatar’s notice before he changed to the healing refrain.

It was a grazing feel, nothing that would dig into the bubbling foulness and draw it forth to the light. The chorus in his Fea blended with the sharpness of a knife cutting the air, reaching for hers to give it strength. What little he remembered could be mistaken but he wasn’t reaching beyond the surface. Something that he could feel around her Fea, brassed him with the severest clanging of ill tuned bells. It hurt his ears, making him think they were bleeding though Legolas pushed harder until the Hobbit forcefully yanked him away.

“You are killing her!” Bilbo told him as he shook the Elf Prince’s clothes.

He looked to Tauriel who had been screaming to the point, was bowing away from the pain of the wound. The two women held on arm and the Man the other, both looked to be wilted from the effort. They sagged at the table’s edge, Legolas started to thank them when a voice called from outside.

“Hello the house!”

With a sigh, he left the room to the see the Elf who called to them. If Bilbo was right, his father was not far away.

“Hir nin, Legolas.” A Sindar archer smiled to him and bowed. “Celin ‘winiath o adar lin. Can I hi danwenidh na le.”

He was tall, blond hair long down his back with the appropriate braids of rank. A light dusting coated his otherwise shiny woven battle dress. The conical helm resembled the acorn, the lowest level of an archer to the Thranduil’s army. This one was not from the Forest guard, there was too much armor to detract from his natural fluidity. The Forest guard wore leather when they could and blued metal if they couldn’t. The bright helm wasn’t helping his headache at all.

“No.” Legolas replied in Westron. “Tauriel has been injured. I need a healer for her, go now.”

The Elf looked uneasy almost apologetic. “Hir nin, edlennen Tauriel.”

The struck sound in the distance of moving metal, the beat of swords on armor took their attention. The Elven archer turned to the noise across the open plain to bow at the waist. He wanted to be in proper position when the King rode to them. The arrogance of that was not lost to the Prince, but he felt no need to bow.

Thranduil, Elven King had come.

The first sighting of the regiments made Legolas grit his teeth as the majestic spectacle. So many Elves that moved at the whim of a King, his King and his father. To command so many might have intimidated him once but no longer. Legolas watched them come closer, the large war Elk came into the view. Thranduil saw far into the distance on any subject, he would know why Legolas had left in haste and why he stood outside a hovel.

The Elk was as majestic as any hart of Mirkwood, bearing his rider with ease. A true Frost Antler would have more white upon his hide for the ability to melt into the snow from danger they couldn’t fight. The long years in Mirkwood had changed him to an autumn beast to his winter kin. His rider looked every inch the King he was. The silver plate sparkled in the sun, the scrolled indentions only the barest hint darker for contrast. Their smiths in Mirkwood labored for many days and nights for the plate mail and each piece was artistry that saved the wearer’s life.

“Ionneg.” The greeting was as sharp as the sword at his side and Legolas expected nothing else.

“Adar.” The deep nod was as far as he would go. “I…”

“Tolo,govano ven.” He was already pulling the reins gently, steering the Elk away. “We are going with Men of Dale to advance upon the Mountain.”

“Father, Tauriel..” Legolas took a step forward only to be pinned at the look shot at him by the Elven King.

The sensation must be the same for a butterfly caught by a curious cat, he thought. His limbs locked in place from long memory of doing exactly as instructed by his sire. The Men of Dale had no need of him there, not when they had every archer in his father’s regiments.

“Where is your place? With your King or the disavowed?” The cold wind blew but only the fire in his father’s eyes was much colder.

“At your side, Adar.” Legolas felt the shame creep into his heart but he held his father gaze. It was hard not to turn away, but he couldn’t do that before the Elven host and keep their respect.

“See to it then.”

Bilbo walked to his elbow for truth, he was a small person of great courage. Legolas looked at him and they regarded each other quietly. “I have to join him.” Handing the paste to the Hobbit, Legolas continued. “I will return at the first opportunity with a healer. Please, help her.”

“I will stay as long as I can.” He took the bowl to give him a tentative smile. “Would this be all over if Thorin didn’t have the Arkenstone?”

“We are long beyond that point now, my friend.” Legolas walked from the family, the hobbit and the one he might have loved. He wished that he had the courage to speak his heart then there was time.

 

**88**88**

The battle raged harder than any storm and for days, they each bathed themselves in the blood of their enemies. Wereworms that shot from the ground, Orcs spilling from the tunnels like ants from a kicked over hill. Bats that dived from the sky, attacking the defenseless. Pain, screams and the relentless tide of death that washed over them, embolden some and drowning others.

The great Bear was wounded, possibly mortal, the Wizard hermit, Radagast was not far from the white shores. Dwarf, Elf and Man curled and died where they lay, until the last breath stirred the dust and the last thoughts froze on their face. Even the great Oakenshield could not fight off his destiny, now taking a place in the Halls of Waiting. War had come to his home, Tauriel had predicted it so. The rabid bite of the dogs of war as they snapped and howled in the night would forever have a permanent place in his nightmares. They could not hide forever in the Greenwood, for evil would just mow through the trees faster than the spiders ever thought.

He walked alone over the rise to the farmhouse where he had left Tauriel, musing on last days. The battle had consumed him from the beginning until the end, space between life and death a mere heartbeat. She had been in his thoughts when he begged the healers to come, needing to make sure her wound was dressed. The Hobbit was a good sort, anxious and caring but what know he of Morgol poisoning? Too many wounded of his race took precedent some of the hearlers told him, while others turned their backs. They would not spare their energy on the Faithless when good Elves lay dying for their King. Legolas could see the reproach in their demeanor for daring to ask.

He stopped, his breath whooshing from the hard kick to his chest that fear gave him. Running quickly, Legolas almost screamed. The farmhouse was a charred ruin, burned blacker than Laketown. The family that had taken her in was dead, throats gnawed open. The women had not been spared, their clothes ripped away for the indignity of forced violation. The claw marks on their bodies were Orc due to the wide spacing of cuts that ribboned their flesh. The prone naked male was not recognizable, his face beaten and now bloated with flies.

Legolas tore through the remains, sick and scared of what he would find. Or not find. An Elf was a prize for an Orc, females the most until they died from raping. Bellowing his anger and fear, the Elf prince kicked the broken wood, threw other pieces here and there but nothing dulled the pain for what he couldn’t change.

“She is not here.”

The voice was quiet, a vocal pronouncement of the grief the prince felt. Looking at his father who came around the side of the blackened husk of a building, Thranduil wore the dented armor and rented cloak like he had come straight from the battlefield. There were no entourage nor escort, no witnesses to this exchange between father and son. The look on his face was softer than he knew but Legolas wanted none of it. Soft would not bring her back, could not deliver her to him. Tauriel had needed him and now she was gone, either a captive of the Orcs or more likely dead at something’s hands that knew only murder.

“I should never have left her, Adar.” Legolas squatted in the burned floor to pick up a broken piece of wood. “My feelings were..”

His feelings were more than fond, Legolas finished in his mind. He had ….love for her, he knew that now. Legolas had waited too long, knew it by the river side when Tauriel left the palace to chase after the Dwarves. Her love for the Dwarf had been strong, her words laying bare her heart at the edge of the burned lake. The moment he wanted something, wanted it like the next drink of water, it was taken. There was no pledge between them, not when she had sealed with another. Tauriel would never have returned his feelings, not after Laketown.

“You are not alone, my son.” Thranduil whispered as the pain caught up with him too. “She was a child in my care.”

He looked to his father then, seeing the ghosts of so many years of pain swirl about his icy face. The scars of his Dragon years where never seen by others, only a slip when he wished it. The glare of cold indifference burned Legolas until a tear escaped his father’s keeping. The confliction struck a something in the prince, an Elf who had been a King but had known so much loss and didn’t know what to do with the grief.

At once, the Elven King remembered himself. “Dwarves were through here, chasing Orcs on the run. Likely as not, they have her. Her body would be lying here with the others if the Orcs had found Tauriel. The Halfing you left with her was quite resourceful, no doubt she is safely tucked away in the Mountain as we speak for the Oakenshield isn’t alive to object.”

The Halfling had been responsible for much indeed or so said the stories sung to a campfire’s embers. Bilbo had risked himself, for his fellowship, for the people of Dale. What rumors of him being a bedmate to the Dwarf King might have been exaggerated but Legolas had not been to see it. Thorin was dead, and Fili, son of Vali would take up Thorin’s seat in the Mountain Court. The blond Dwarf would not deny his brother if Kili asked for Tauriel.

Shut away from the stars and trees, Legolas thought with great aching sadness. “Adar, …”

Thranduil cut him off. “Take a company and return to Mirkwood. We cannot leave it undefended with our enemy on the run.”

“No.”

Thranduil stopped being the loving father, straightening into the Elven King. “No?” The frigid distain chilled Legolas but he held firm.

“I will not go back. I cannot, if she is not there.” His resolve tightened with each word until it was stronger than Dwarven iron. “The trails where we ran as Elflings lead to a different purpose in the current light. The places in the wood where we talked and shared confidences are locked away from me. She could have been my love, Adar, and I would have loved her always. There..the trees…”

He would fade there, Legolas couldn’t say that to him. Thranduil carried a heavy burden of lives that looked to him to rule with impartial judgement. A warrior to the King was disavowed, and the prince faded because of it. Those trees held his laughter and Tauriel’s smiles and would until the end of his days. A son should never tell his father that home has become a place he doesn’t belong.

“Go north to the Dunedain rangers.” Thranduil walked to him, shedding the King to be his father. He placed his hand upon Legolas’ shoulder, his eyes mirroring the same pain. “Find your peace with them. I release you, my son and my love goes with you.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have said before and I will say it again.. I am not the biggest fan of Legolas..I did portray him a little cowardly in the beginning but I wrote it like that because he didn't know what he wanted or completely how he felt.. The battle changed that for him. Faced with death in that manner, he came to grips with his feelings and that is why he left. Sure he could have marched up to the Gates and said..' I want to talk to my friend', only to be told, 'she ain't here..' when there would be the whole misunderstandings and the story would have gone in a completely different way.
> 
> Translations  
> Celin ‘winiath o adar lin. Can I hi danwenidh na le. … I bring word from your Father. You are to return to him immediately  
> Hir nin, edlennen Tauriel…..My Lord, Tauriel is banished.  
> Tolo,govano ven……Come, We are going…


	3. Kibil, Wife of Dain Ironfoot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When you love someone.................
> 
> You'll deny the truth, believe a lie...............

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sexual themes...
> 
> Dain and his wife, Kibil..

The Dwarves were loud and it was to be expected. Durin’s day was about coming together, sharing good food and drinking good beer. The Iron Court was alive tonight, frantic energy encapsulated them all in a hedonistic brawl of released expectations. The great doors had been sealed against trade, no visitors were allowed in the delving this night. It was their time, Durin’s day was for Dwarves and they lived it to the fullest.

Kibil walked among her subjects with a tankard in hand. The torchlit walls caught the dull sheen of steel pins holding her braids in caged defiance of gravity. The ice blue gown fitted tightly to the hips, showing her figure with the help of a gleaming steel corset banding her waist. Many males looked to her, as did the females and each wondering on her thoughts. She wanted to celebrate with them, dance to the wild music as the others did. The Queen should be happy and fake smile plastered on her face fooled many. It would never have deceived Thorin, Kibil thought with a sigh. Her son knew her, better than his father ever had.

Being merry to the assembled, to laugh at their antics again was something she missed. Kibil had lived more years in the Iron Court than her life in the northern wastes. However, she still felt like an outsider some days. There had been love that smoothed the ragged edges of her raw feelings, love of her Dwarf and her son.

But that was then and this is now. Things change over the course of a life, when sunny days become somber. When a female knows her love is lonely and unrequited, a husband’s feelings are for a merger and not the wife before him. The knowledge made her rage in the beginning, but now forty years had come and gone, none of them improving her situation. She should be merry, she knew. Her chief rival had left court days ago and yet the specter of that Dwarrowdam still hung about her neck like a grapple hook.

Olrun had left for Erebor but at the same time, her dearest son, Thorin had left as well. Where the sweet also has a bitter lining, she thought. Kibil knew not when her son would return, she could only hope that Olrun didn’t. Already the hard press of her husband’s wrath boiled over now, without the modifying influence of his cousin. _His Risrithî_. Dain did not ask her council, never bothered her to sit with him. There was no disrespect from him, there was nothing at all. He didn’t see her anymore, looking through her for the rival that didn’t love him back.

Seeking to her husband so deep in his cups, the love she still felt choked her throat with repressed tears. Too much of late did he drank himself down, stupid and raging threats to the Mountain court. Kibil hated what he was becoming, how little he saw things. Dwarrows were talking, whispering together at a fearful glance. Even the ‘dams who she associated worried together in clowders, saying strange things about the sounders leaving for the Red Springs.

Having enough of trying and failing to find happiness tonight, Kibil kissed and hugged her share at her leave. Making her way to the Royal Suite, she hissed at a few couples she spied who were out of bounds and laughed at others. Many a child might be conceived this night, so carefree and joyous was the Iron court. The dark corridors bent into a maze against invaders but also a boon for those who looked for heated moments away from all seeing eyes. Once, Dain had chased her in these tight turns, to hoist her against the rough walls. A husband and wife seeking their pleasure but too insistent to wait until they arrived to their rooms. Long years ago, before the dragon, before he turned his eyes from her.

Memories made her sad, heartsick. Taking to their suite, she closed the door to look around. The ante chamber was split with receiving chair on one side and a cordoned closet facing an arched entry into the bedroom. Dain was gone or stayed in the barracks most days. When he slept in their rooms, it was on a pallet before the hearth. No entreating nor pleading had made him seek her bed. Forty years and she longed for him each day and all through the night.

Kibil undressed, her thoughts in other places. Tomorrow she would go to the chancellor to discuss the rumors of the sounders moving in winter. There were not so many that the Armored Tooth could be risked in this way. The boars were not nenrai or even rekikoirat to take the cold and flourish in frigid temperatures. They could not leave the safety of the stables at least until spring, this she knew to be truth.

Dumping her finery in a basket to be laundered, Kibil had to remember to mention a stain or two from a careless spill. She pulled a simple shift before digging into the fur heavy bed. The rooms were hers, appointed to her liking. Looking around she missed the weight of her husband in the room, his ironbound chests full of his clothes stacked in the corner. Dain’s booming laugh filled each corner, cocooning her in soft fluttery feelings. Maybe, she should visit her home to the north, get away from her memories for a space of time.

A door banged against the wall, a snarling grumble echoed in the room _. Her room_. Sitting up, Kibil pulled a dagger from her pillow, staring at the entry to the antechamber. None would disturb her in the Royal quarters, not without reason. Shuffling continued in the other room, boots thudding on a stone floor along with another healthy bout of swearing.

“Husband?” She called as time passed but nothing.

There was no screaming so he wasn’t injured. Turning to her side facing the wall, Kibil forced herself to calm breaths. Going to him, seeing what he had become, made her heart ache. Soon, the tension released her from its grip, allowing sleep to steel her to a dreaming happy place. Time slipped and bobbled until the hands on her body pulled her back to reality.

“Shh…” He whispered in her hair, drawing away the furs and blankets until she lay in her shift. Still sleepy, Kibil didn’t complain when the night air pebbled her nipples or was it hands?

Dain gently rolled her to her knees, to sit on his hunches. It wasn’t the most comfortable position for two stout individuals of Khazad but it opened her body to him. So unexpected, yet she couldn’t refuse, not when she dreamed of him to do just this. His hands removed the shift, tossing it aside to leave her naked and exposed though she didn’t feel this way. She loved him, for all of Dain’s faults and shortcomings. Kibil loved her husband, would give him anything for his happiness. But not Olrun, never that.

Dain touched her, gently tracing shapes across her skin to settle at her nipples. The slight mewl of pleasure sharpened when he grabbed her breasts, squeezing them until she gasped loudly. Fully awake her hands covered his, to lessen his grip without words. The silent seduction was erotic and very out of character for him, making her quiver in sublime pleasure.  

He leaned over her, his stomach touching her back. The long line of hard packed muscles on her naked skin have her a shiver. Dain’s lips traced the line of her shoulder, the rounded softness of her buttocks caressing his firm thighs. She moved willingly, purring with satisfaction. His fingers combed through her white blond hair, brushing it aside and still lose himself in its mane.

Restlessly, Kibil moved her hips with growing arousal. Dain knew, felt the moist heat on his leg though, she wasn’t ashamed to want her husband. He pressed forward, groaning as he sheathed himself in her wet warm depths. The pace was slow as she liked their joining. He reached around to hug her to him, then one hand grasped her breast while the other parted the curls of her silvery second beard. The carnal touch was too much, wringing cries and moans from Kibil. She reared back to meet his thrusts, her hips swaying for deeper penetration.

He started plunging into her, moaning in guttural growls. Kibil screamed as he buried himself deeper, unleashed and wanton for her husband to take her. Arching against him for all that he could give, she braced body for the whipping feel of her release that tightened in her loins. Dain jerked against her, kissing her neck as his hands gripped her shoulders. The pounding lasted only a moment more as the release drowned them both in sensual flames.

They collapsed together, a heap on the bed with her husband still moving against her. The Stiffbeard ‘dam moaned at his weight, at the heat of body but cared little to complain of it. His hands reached under to pull her close as he rolled to his side, unwilling to let her go. Her shudders of pleasure subsided as did his curled into each other’s arms. Hope bloomed in her soul, a small budding that this might be their new beginning, a new life together.

She was almost asleep from their enthusiastic loving, Dain’s lips easing up her neck pulled her from the brink. Smiling she wrapped a hand into his shaggy head to scratch the scalp but stopped as his kisses became murmurings. Tears wet her skin as his shook with suppressed sobs. When his hands slide up her waist to cup her breasts and thumb her nipples, Dain’s words became clear.

_Olrun…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know about you guys... but if a man said another woman's name in bed... well. There would be pain involved and it wouldn't be MINE... lol
> 
> Kibil is Khudzul for silver.. She is a stiffbeard 'dam...


	4. Bain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When you want someone  
>  When you need someone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone posted a comment on my other story ‘The Land of Might Have Been’ about Bain having his first time in Minas Tirith and it being a bit wild.. I can’t find the name of the person who posted it but here you go! 
> 
> Group sex warning. M/M/F

 

A week into their stay in Tarthalion’s house had kept them at each other’s elbows despite the spacious rooms. The walls were not as thick as one might think, nestled as it was against the white stone of Minas Tirith. Each pop of a bedspring, every lustful groan and squealing gasp might be heard at all hours of the night. Bain had not realized Kili’s and Tauriel’s restraint upon the road until there was none. Cloistered as they were behind doors and away from view, it was a hedonistic free for all that started after the moon rose and lasted until the wee hours of the morning.

It helped little when Kili was caught in his small clothes making breakfast one morning. His natural state bothered the Dwarf little but made Bain and Dorlad very uncomfortable. The rough existence out on the trails had given them a leniency in respect to viewing each other. But they were in the city now, in a dwelling with walls! Clothes were a hallmark of civilization! There was talk after Kili left of combing the eggs to ascertain that none of his copious body hair fell into their meal. Their Dwarf friend was much too happy to see beyond the end of his own nose these days but a long tunic and maybe an apron wouldn’t go amiss.

Tauriel didn’t come down and Kili prepared her meals and took them to her. Yavien advised she had seen the pair chasing one another around the courtyard, playing some sort of adult game of tag. Neighbors might talk if they knew the shadows that sped along the rocky paths between hedgerow and rose bush was one of the Fair folk, she advised but nothing else on their state of dress that gave Bain hope for their modesty. Dorlad told of seeing them shooting behind the stable block in a makeshift range with two butts made of stuffed pillows and a wood board. They knew by all of these indicators that she lived and their Dwarf friend hadn’t shackled her to the bed for deviant purposes.

The Elf was circumspect in appearance, if she chose to limit herself to nocturnal life. It would be wiser if she kept to that schedule, relieving of them the possibility of being caught. Yavien had cautioned them time and again of keeping her secret on the grounds. Mobs of people no matter how excited at seeing an Elf would fair destroy the estate. If it were known that she was married to a Dwarf, there was no end of what might happen. That the married couple limited themselves to the bedroom for many hours of the day was both expedient and embarrassing…..

The constant sex worked on the Men in other ways, not just at the decibel level. A thick oppressive cloud of pheromones floated down from the upper level, part of each lungful of air that was drawn. Dorlad would get up in the night and pace about the receiving room until the environment dissipated. At his age, Bain was certain the Dunedain had seen much and experienced just as much but he was not immune to it. It was just driving Bain mad and he was very capable of complaining about it. The fickle itching in his nethers caused him to abuse the water serpent until the skin was chafed. Two days previously, he had found a pot of old grease in the main house kitchens. The Prince of Dale wanted to be ashamed at the theft of the crockery but it oiled the stroking possess along so well, he purposely forgot his guilt time and time again. The benefit was the water serpent wasn’t raw and hurting, making for an easier trip to the privy.

This morning, Dorlad all but pushed Bain from the house after Kili had come for some of the bread Yavien brought them and a crock of butter and honey. There had been a funny look on the Dwarf’s face as he gazed at the thick weight of the amber substance which lead Bain to believe that there might be another use in store. Dorlad had been chattering of late of sampling the local night life, as much as possible if the Ranger had his way. Now, with a Dwarrow whose sexual repertoire had extended to food, time away from the house might be in order.

Dorlad pointed out what to wear, nothing fancy at all. A simple tunic of good cloth though he had finer ones rolled into a pack, trousers and boots. The Dunedain explained that while he was a Man of means in the city, wearing his finest would make him a mark to others. At any road, most of the population may know that a foreign Prince was in residence and might know of his face already. Surely, the bawdy houses would mark his accent as not being one of theirs but if he dressed down they would think him of no consequence. No sense in confirming his birth for them for no reason.

“I do not know the way of things in Dale but I have found it wise to always call a whore a lady. Their lives are hard enough in their chosen trade…. and it never hurts to be polite to someone who is doing you a service, no matter the money exchanged or the type of service provided.” Dorlad told him as they exited the estate by the main gate.

Bain listened and had to agree. Doxies were aplenty in Dale, walking the quays and loitering near the warehouses for a quick coin if it was a busy day. He had been surprised at the people who entertained that kind of work. Widows who had lost husbands, old maids or soiled daughters that got caught in a liaison then turned from their father’s house. There was a rumor that a young cousin of Alfrid Lickspittle had walked the row near the warehouses for some days in a long skirt but Bain knew he worked at the Master’s house as a servant later. Why ever would the young Man take to the skintrade if there was the possibility of coin without debasement?  

The avenues held traffic, not so thick as if was on market days at the lower levels. It was an ambling sort of pace, not unlike cattle moving from one pasture to another. The twilight of darker blues and hot pinks shot the sky in a masterpiece that made Bain wish he were out on the plains. The black of the mountains and the white city against the falling night would make a spectacular view. The evening air swept the dirt and muck into small dervishes along the cobbles. It’s pungent odor slapped him broadside, pushing him to turn away.

The women barkered to him and Dorlad as they walked by the corner to the next level. They walked in lines before garish doorways and flashing breasts to passersby to drum up business. The smell of hot bodies pressed together reeked of fornication and embarrassed choices.  He was no stranger to the type, having more in common with this lot than the higher blooded lords at the upper levels. The faces that looked to him reflected failed commitments and lesser morals. There was not a vice nor swindle that doesn’t live by secrecy. If caught, it merely respawns itself with a new fresh face and supple body.

The male cockroaches scurried hurriedly to discuss their pleasure of the deviances. Some grabbed at the women, palming their teats lewdly as if judging the value of the female by the weight of her bosom. Harad boys no older than Bain milled through the customers, their dark skin that much blacker in the fading light and bold colored dress. Their clothes were probably not their own, another mark of their slavery that they couldn’t afford the rich metal colored materials. Dull brass torques at their long necks, steel pantaloons that billowed at their legs, gold waistcoats that offered no warmth but opened acres of gleaming foreign flesh.

“Let’s go in here.” Dorlad pointed to a tavern that was clean and non-descript.

Bain followed, feeling nervous suddenly that pushed him to uncharacteristic annoyance. A young slave server, a boy no older than twelve, bumped into him as the crowd at the door eddied him forward. Bain grabbed him, all but shoving him back. He stopped though at the look of fear on the boy’s face, making him ashamed for laying hands on him. The young slave’s life was harsher than he knew, his fear was justified though never because of Bain. Apologies were useless as the air for the boy disappear as soon as Bain released him.

Losing sight of the Dunedain, he looked around swiftly to find him at the bar bending the ear of the barkeep. A tall thick Man with scars aplenty up his arms told of a different life before he stepped behind the two feet of wood that separated himself from Dorlad. As he neared the pair, the barkeep shook his long salt and pepper mane at something the ranger said handing him a bottle of something at the same time. The scars that Bain had noticed were old, wrinkled with the age he had noticed in the Man’s hair. Probably a former guard or soldier, he thought, looking to spend his retirement years in a safer life.

His patrons were not shabby, nor was the tavern. The wood under his palms as he stepped up to the rail was clean as were the rushes under his feet. Though busy, the bar was well run. The pewter mugs had no dried dregs at the bottom, further evidence of care. Dorlad poured him a tankard full from a glass bottle handed to him from the same Man.

“Dol Amroth blend. Give it a try.” The Dunedain quaffed a large mouthful as Bain continued to stare at the substance with suspicion.

His father preferred the Dorwinion wines that the Elven King gifted on his visits to the crafted beers. The Dol Amroth wine was a clear amber pink, sparkling on the tongue to make his nose itch. It was smooth, not rough as he was used to with fuller tasting reds. The bubbles fizzled down his throat to cool and heat his innards, giving him a glowing feeling of sublime happiness. The tickling sensation continued up until the third glass but fueled the glow to spread along his limbs in a fiery rush. The bottle was soon empty, causing Bain to bounce coin upon the wood for more of the same.

On the second bottle, the pair left the tavern with Dorlad laughing about another he wanted to see. They stumbled down the cobblestones, shoring up the other in a hilarious sidewalk of travel. The Dunedain drank to see beyond his future while Bain was seeking anonymous oblivion, each tripping from public house to burlesque. The Dale prince sought it in those blank, anonymous faces, a kind of benign escape as he drank himself into an evening stupor. A death that would not mean being dead, just a monetary lapse of living from the grinding pressure of his name. _Son of the Dragonslayer_. His father was a great man, slayer of Smaug the Golden Terror, savior of Laketown’s people and elected King of Dale. What renown might his son find in this world that would be equal to his bloodline?

Looking at the slaves, Bain wondered what Herumor might rise from the D’thang slave class, a leader who would take back these people’s freedom and lead them home. Oftentimes it was the most unlikely rebel who found within themselves a spark of something greater. It was probably always there, but most people are never tested, and they go through their whole lives without ever knowing that when things are at their worst, this person is at their best.

Bain wasn't sure if that thought was true of his father, whether the spark had been dormant for years awaiting the Dragon's fire to ignite it. He remembered Bard fighting with the master's men and trying to do what he could to help others. A little more food to the elderly, or giving a hand to a widow that needed patching on the roof before winter. Those things spoke loudly of the kind of man the King of Dale was, what Bain hoped to be.

Dorlad pulled him to a stop before a well-appointed brothel. “It is time for a bit o’ treacle. Come on me lad, let’s get you sorted!”

“uhumm” Bain could say nothing as he warbled himself into the doorway, almost crashing into the houseman at entry. The tall thick Black slave gave him a gimlet stare.

This house served a higher clientele, richly appointed to serve the better class. Men of Gondor, Lords, merchants with enough coin to spare for a night of pleasure with a fresh face and clean body. Bain watched it all of it through a drunken film yet admired none of it. The walls and white stone columns were swathed in bold blues and metallic silvers, drapery to accent the men and women of the Umber nation that milled about the crowds in different states of dress.

The slave Men with their oiled muscles bared to the groups with their heads shaved clean at the sides but a cropping of black corded locks at the top. Gold rings were attached at various intervals rolled in a dull sheen to take the light and pass it on to another. Glossy skin of their chests, hairless where a Man of Gondor or Dale would sport a thicker patch, was a novelty. Their plain black pants saved their modesty with a wide leather belt cinched in brass just above what Bain might think was their engorged organs.

The women were arrayed the same, black skirts of shimmering material circled their waists loosely to the knee. Long black hair was braided thinly, then plaited into a high rope from the top of their heads. Dusted in sparkling gold, their amber skin caught the eye of many as did their bountiful chest and cleavage. Bain walked by a man who smeared an odd paste on the breast of one while his friend licked it away. The woman between them moaned at the contact, her eyes closed as she thrust her chest at them for more.

“Merry eventide to you fellows.” A dark haired woman dressed in layers of black and silver cloth stepped before Dorlad. Sloe eyes line in heavy kohl watched both critically above a painted smile. “How might my humble house serve you tonight?”

Dorlad took the madam aside, handing her a small pouch in the process. Bain watched her rub the material slowly, feeling the weight and the size of coin within. It was an unseen movement, her way of figuring out how much she had been given without opening the bag before the customer. Her eyes shifted to Bain as Dorlad spoke in hushed whispers. A smile bloomed on her thick lips making her blue eyes sparkle mischievously.

“Ahhh, the young master would like to swive in a row tonight?” It took Bain a moment to catch the conversation and what was being relayed. His confusion prompted the madam to take a step to him but her smile stay firmly in place. “Your first time, I gather from your friend? Would you like a sweet cunny or a tight flit?”

Bain’s mind slammed to a halt at the warring possibilities. He knew nothing of the act other then what he had spied with his friends behind sheds or from quays in Laketown. He understood the dynamics of each situation with a Man or a woman. What a nightmare that'd be, he thought with trepidation. It's the job of a Man to fan the spark of desire into flames, not quench it. But he was unschooled in this, he knew nothing of making a woman enjoy herself in the act with him. Nor a Man for that matter.

“I think a girl would be a good starter.” Dorlad looked helpful or tried but his attention kept wondering about the room, looking for a bedmate of his own.

The madam waived over to a group where a girl separated herself from a portly gentleman who concentrated on her companion. She approached them her naked breasts bouncing with each stride. A Near Harad girl with honeyed skin and dark eyes. Gold caps covered her nipples, sitting high in the center of her teat. She was not so old, the firm flesh didn’t sag to her jeweled navel like so many of the older women from his experience. A swath of shiny copper material skirted her waist, belted by links of the bronze and hard pewter.

“This is Nur. She will be your companion for tonight.” The madam leaned to the girl’s ear to whisper something. The smile on Nur’s lips never dipped or changed, she merely nodded.

It was surreal, being led away. Bain could hear Dorlad’s laughter at some joke most likely as Nur escorted him up a winding stair to another level. The wood case was detailed, a serpent pattern of scales or maybe a Dragon. It was so lifelike, Bain’s stomach tightened in response. The rounded columns underneath the handrail had the same textured design, a magnificent showing of an artisan. At the top once they had bypassed several leaving patrons, a fish’s head sat at the top of the balustrade’s end as of to swallow the orb in it’s mouth. The walls here were painted a calm blue green, a shallow water feeling to match the aquatic mosaic in the floor.

The stairs continued though Nur pulled him away to the short hall. Four doors greeted him with a young girl in a gauzy silver dress sitting in a chair at the end. Bain felt out of place, out of his body almost with nothing to say to the half-naked woman who led him by the hand. He couldn’t get his faculties together on the act itself and what he needed to accomplish with it.

The room she chose was an even size. A tall table to the corner held a metal bowl and ewer with a stack of thick towels with a basket tucked underneath for disposal. There were no windows at this side of the rockface, the room held sconces of lit tapers, thick beeswax bigger than his fist. The bed looked inviting, wide and piled high with green pillows atop a darker green spread. In the wall above the bed, black metal rings hung at regular intervals that reminded Bain of a stable where he would tie up Isen.

His mind still on the metal rings, he failed to notice that the courtesan was undressing him or that she had removed her belt and skirt. It was slow, she wasn’t in a hurry, pulling one piece at a time away to hang on the wall behind them. When he was down to his trousers and boots, she led him to a chair to the side and bade him sit. There were glancing brushes of his body, with a smile teasing her lips the entire time. Once his boots were off with a minimum of fuss, Nur stood between his legs to gently pull his pants from his body.

Lips met tightly, warm breath against warm breath, mouths wet and slick. His mouth engulfed her, eagerness taking control of him. Their lips floated together, sliding and smoothing. There were timid introductions as their tongues met first as friends, a soft greeting that turned sensual and erotic. Bain groaned as she pulled a lip between hers, tugging and teasing. Heat pumped through his veins and a demanding ache so strong it pulsed from his balls into his cock.

Bain swore he felt her heartbeat, pounding in a rapid drumbeat. His left hand trailed down her body, searching for the bare skin of her lower back he had glimpsed earlier. The warmth drew him like a mesmerizing cantor, his fingers spread quickly across the golden valley claiming it for himself. Bain didn’t want to stop, he wanted it all. Tearing his lips away, he frantically looked around the room at vertical surface to continue the investigation of her softness.

He needed this exploration, to gain the knowledge of each inch of her and learn all of her secrets. His body ached at the idea of slickness hidden away behind those sooty curls. She laughed a little, taking the bed and spreading her legs at the same time. Bain could see her pussy but only for a moment, falling forward when she took his hand to join her.

“Lie back, my Lord.” She whispered in dulcet tones, pressing him to his back.

Nur moved down his body, the cold of her golden caps gliding down his belly. She licked the head of his member, the precum sparkling on the tip of her tongue before she ran it over her lips. The sight of it had his cock drooling as if impatient for her touch. She seemed quite enchanted with his penis, as her hands moved over its length along with her tongue.

Bain moaned and arched his back and in the next moment, the beautiful courtesan took the engorged plinth into her mouth and began moving her lips over its length, carefully guarding her teeth from his tender flesh. He couldn’t resist the jerking of his hips up to her warm wet mouth, choking slightly while her throat contracted around the cockhead. She took it all without complaint, her head bobbing up and down in his lap. It wasn’t enough with her mouth, soon her fingers were finding his balls and rolling them gently in her grasp as her mouth moved over his length.

When the release crashed over him, Bain had not been expecting its intensity, yet he known it was coming. He sobbed helplessly, lost in the grips of the act. It was a blindness of the immediate pleasure that he couldn’t stop gripping the sheets or the hoarse shudders spread over him. Her mouth continued to wreak havoc on his senses. She didn’t spit his seed out, but swallowed, and eagerly lapped up all that slipped past her lips.

There was little that she missed but Nur rose from the bed to take a cloth from the basket. She wet it liberally before coming back to him. Bain lay drained of tension, not moving, and content to be so. The oddly stretched moment was like a bite of eternity, eaten on the run. When she finished cleaning him, Nur tossed the cloth to the basket underneath, sliding against his body. Her eyes were warm with her lips slightly swollen from sucking his cock.

Curiosity got the better of him and sometimes it got him in odd predicaments. Bain pushed her gently so that she was on her back and he was kneeling on either side of her hips. Leaning down, he captured her mouth and kissed her raptly, his wet cock sliding over her belly. The salt flavor on her tongue he recognized to be his leavings, the spent she had refused to give up. When he pulled back, she eyed him impishly as she pulled the caps away from her body and drop them to the floor. Nur arched herself, rubbing hard nipples against his lightly furred chest. Heat jumped between them and soon she was as breathless as he. Not satisfied now that his blood was running hot once more, Bain kissed her jaw, working down the long column of her neck.

The warm skin beneath his mouth was delectable, smelling of gardenias and mint. He began to work his way down, curious and unafraid that the immediate need was passed. His cock was semi erect still, dragging along her skin before his mouth. Plaint and receptive, she allowed it, mewling and offering suggestions on the treatment of her breasts and how hard to suck on her nipples. Sampling the dusty pink aureoles, he scraped the puckered flesh as delicately as she said, using his thumbs to worry its mate.

The kisses moved downward, toward the soft curls nestled between her thighs. The shadowy cove called to him, the smell roping him in. He began to kissing her there, in her most intimate spot and found her spreading her legs wide in acceptance. There was only the barest wisps of fringe on her thickening lips, a dark accent to the rose colored flesh. She told him that nothing was denied, he would have total access to her body to use as he willed.

His lips brought back a flavor, clean but completely unknown. The kisses became tongue kisses, as the active digit flicked out to taste and catalog the new discovery. His tongue laved the hair, slipping into her hidden folds, exploring deep into her secret cavities, in a relentless drive to experience and learn. Long golden fingers twined in his hair to pull him this way and that, the moans and instruction filling the blanks that her hands lift. The moisture increased there, her cleft drenched in both his own saliva and her excitement. Licking once more at the hard flesh at the top of her slit, he wrenched himself away from her grip.

Bain moved over her in a powerful rush, desire and heat controlling his will. He settled between her spread thighs, needing the rub of that wet pussy against his cock. He took her mouth roughly, devouring her lips as his tongue plunged inside to tangle with hers. Her grotto had tasted the same, a fresh bathed scent that he had not understood until he nose was buried into it. Her body surged to life, arching up into his. She wrapped her arms around his neck as he gathered her tightly against him. Bain wanted to feel his serpent spear her soft folds, the warm encasing clench rippling down the sensitive part of him.

Their bodies were as fused as their mouths, rocking in a slow rhythm that held his mind as he held her closely. He was deep, impossibly deep. She surrounded him, wetly grasping his root to twist apart his reasoning. Their hips were flush against each other, surging as Nur groaned into his neck. Her pussy from this angle nearly made his eyes water from the pleasure.

Incredibly loud sounds poured from her mouth until it’s a strange sort of song, her moans the melody, their bodies banging out the tune of old, breaths getting mixed up in all of it until he was the mindless one. The hot clinch of that slippery cunt coupling with a low hiss told her release. All his senses were filled with her—her sounds, her smell, her touch. _Her_.

Bain unraveled at a gasp, his release sharp, bewildering and painful. His hips were still convulsively moving against her body as he settled down over her, too exhausted and spent to remember his own name. He became aware of soft caresses, a warmth of feeling that brought a smile to his face. Her hands gently stroking down his back. He was probably crushing her but he couldn’t bring himself to move. He was inside her, apart of her. And he wondered what that might be like.

“May I ask a question of you?” It was hard to catch his breath with the hard lethargy weighing him down like a wet blanket.

She laughed even as she squirmed out from under him. Her eyes danced with the same laughter, making her dark eyes shine brilliantly. “Have you the strength?”

“I’ll find it, my lady.” Rolling on his back he looked to her as she rose from the bed to take cloths from the table and dip them into the basin. “When I penetrate you, does it bring you pleasure or was it a show?”

She cleaned herself, closing her eyes as she bathed her genitals. Bain had never been exposed to that level of intimacy with a woman, rightly it would be very inappropriate with his sisters. The stroke of the cloth down her thighs, the smell and taste of her cunt still in his mouth, had his flesh twitching in response. When she finished her absolutions, Nur joined him.

“There are many ways of pleasure, not all arrive in paradise at the same time.” Cleaning his length, she leaned down and kissed the head of it. It was evasion, a smooth chiding for the asking. “Do you feel adventurous? Would you like to know a darker pleasure?”

Her fingers slid beyond his stones to rub at his back passage. She watched him, gauging his interest and seeing his confusion. The tips glanced at his anus, teasing it until a firmer stroke pushed one finger inside him. It wasn’t painful, though dry and foreign. She withdrew but a smile grew wider as a result.

“Am I supposed to feel something?” Bain was confused or his body had not recovered yet to have an adequate response to the stimuli.

The whore pretended to ponder him. “I know of someone better suited to make you feel.”

She walked to the door, nude, allowing him to see everything as her body swayed in stride. His member jumped a little at the sight with ghostly tingles on how good it felt to be in that body. He wanted it again, wanted to sink into that wet fist and forget for a little while. Lust rode his thoughts as she swayed and chuckled to whomever was on the other side. Her bottom was rounded as her hips, cushioning his body in the softness. There were no harsh angles to her form, not like other women or young girls. The difference was the perception of beauty, it was obviously different for every Man.

She came back to the bed, still nude and wondrous. Bain rose a little until he saw her take a bottle of something from the table littered with the same. She uncorked it, smiling devilishly at him. He was beginning to like those smiles of hers.

“Raise your knees and place your feet on the bed.” She commanded and like a good soldier, Bain obeyed.

Nur dipped a finger into the bottle, coating her index finger with a thin pale cream. Bain watched her hand, watched it move between his legs to his orifice. He hissed as she slid that first inch in, stretching the tight muscles of his bottom. His ass was on fire, the press of her finger as she stroked his cock confused the pleasure in him. He wanted to open his legs wider for more and squirm against the invasion rather than away. He liked the burn, the fiery pain that made his cock itch and weep. His flesh contracted around her fingers as he adjusted. She took her time, moving back and forth. When she retreated, he couldn’t stop the whimper of protest, wanting no pause in the sweet sensations.

A knock, a closed set of knuckles rapped on the door before it opened. A tall Man, a slave of Far Harad, eased into the room and closed the door quickly behind him. Nur looked over her shoulder at him with a smile. He was muscular, taller than Bain with a shaved pate without the neat braids that many wore. Black trousers were all he wore save for the band of metal rings and leather cuffs at the wrists.

A light web of scars burst across one side of torso, a mace to the chest would cause such a scar. And it wasn’t alone. Yellow white against his black skin, his forearms were littered with them in no discernable pattern. A scar signifies past pain, a wound that did not heal as it ought. But it testifies, too, to survival. This slave served and he survived. Fearsome was an adjective and it was most adapt.

“I said, my lord, there are many ways of pleasure.” Nur spoke with a hushed, excited tone as the slave walked around the bed. “Let us explore some with you.”

The male undressed, his member was darker than his body and much much larger than Bain’s own size. Hypnotized, Dale’s Prince watched as the slave moved his hand along his own length breathing deeply as the cock grew in size. He couldn’t look away, it was an oddity that aroused the curious side of brain. Nur pushed another finger into his bottom, taking his cock deeply in her warm mouth as Bain gasped at the feeling.

Reaching out he grasped the slave’s cock, rubbing his fingers over the hardness to feel the soft head. “Come and join us if you wish.” Bain told him, drawing him forward when he slide his fingers back to touch the slave’s balls.

The slave said nothing, knee walking on the bed as Bain continued his journey to map his body. Unable to stop, he pulled the Far Harad male to him as the slave continued to work the base of his root. Watching his hand move along the dark length then back to the heavy stones beneath stirred Bain’s excitement, burning him to ashes. On a particularly deep pull from Nur, Bain opened his mouth to take the Slave’s cock into his own. Wrapping his tongue about the head as the whore did to him, Bain groaned as the slave’s fingers found his flat nipples.

**88**

Later that night, sated and boneless, Bain reflected. Dark hands on his pale skin, a hot wet grip on his member as a thick cock plowed his bottom over and over until there was nothing left for him to give. He was empty and saw just how desperate the slaves were to please, yet how dispossessed of pleasure. It was crude, even as it claimed sophistication. But now-seeing it with his eyes, hearing it with his ears; the understanding was both fresh and soiled. _Unenchanting_.

He had enjoyed them, both of them and hoped that they might have too. Male or female, what did it matter, really, when the body yearned? The yearning was a knowledge all its own, a language that until last night he had not understood. It had held him in a grip so tight, there was no escape if he had dared to find one. Knowledge of this kind of gluttony could be just as dangerous as a sword and lust sharper still. He couldn’t forget, or unremember, only go forward and wish for the control over his baser instincts.  

It was hallow, the welling feelings that surged through the cracks when his hubris broke. Fantasies of warm flesh and willing bodies had been safe. They are a break from reality, a hot breath on his mind during the cold nights on the lake or on the trail. This night had been a chance to act on desires for a short period of time, to see what it was all about of course. Now he knew, and felt a little dirty at the knowledge.

There was no love, what they had done in this room. Action, a performance were three people brought out a physiological result. Pleasure without the complications. It was pretty wrapping on a pile of shit. Enjoyment wasn’t intimacy, enjoyment wasn’t love. His parents had loved, his sister loved, Kili and Tauriel loved _all_ the time! He had been taught from an early age that to chase pleasure was one thing but it was better when there were feelings involved. Somewhere out in the world was a woman for him, or a male, someone who simulated his mind and would stir his heart into an inferno. Dwarves and Elves loved that way, why then could not a Man?

He rolled to his side, curling into the large black Harad slave. The Man snorted at him but held him closer. The woman, a seeming afterthought now that the pleasure was done snuggled into his back to wrap an arm across the pair of them. As he drifted to sleep, the last thoughts were of how once a Man has seen society's underbelly, he can never turn his back on it. Never pretend that it doesn't exist.

Glory and fortune may not smile upon him, he might be doomed to obscurity as the Son and nothing more. A quiet life was still a life to be proud of, especially if it were a long quiet life.

 

***********

Dorlad rubbed his eyes, heeling the sockets with his hands to push off the sleep. The basin held cool water, he didn’t care if it wasn’t warm. This time of morning, the patrons who at paid for the night were stirring to find their way home and the house might sleep for a few hours more. The two harlots on the bed had been his entertainment, they cost less together than the female that Bain had been given. Older than the fresh and nubile women paraded downstairs, he cared little for their age. Himself old as he was, Dorlad still looked to be of middle years due to his Numenorean blood. The older they were, the less of a pervert he felt at the terrible age gap with the woman he fuckled.

Older whores knew their trade better while the younger ones were cleaner. The pair had ridden him harder than any horse in Rohan, one even took him in her bottom and begged for more. Her partner had been most obliging at that point, giving Dorlad a different show for the next little bit to wiggle across his belly and lick her compatriot’s cunny at the same time. There was still coin in the purse and he intended to give each a silver piece and a few to Bain’s night companion.

His instructions to the madam of the house was clear: a fresh girl who knew her trade but wasn’t so fawning that Bain felt a responsibility or some passionate attachment. The young Princeling had honor by the mile, ingrained upon fertile soil by his august parent. A Man getting his wick dipped for the first time could lead to all sorts of confusion. The last thing anyone wanted was Bain thinking he was in love with a whore and either spending all his money on her or trying to take her home to Dale.

Pulling on his togs and gear, Dorlad scooped out a few coins for the ladies. No idea how much they made on a daily wage, he didn’t feel like skimping. They wouldn’t have too much longer in this life, neither was a slave nor bound to the house. The pair could either be booted out because they couldn’t earn or tired of it. Soiled doves were not in high demand for much once they left a brothel, no lady of the higher levels would want such in her home. If they had funds saved, they might find a small house or take in some employment. Many died from the Ripening disease or some malady before they got to the age of his companions.

Slipping from the room, Dorlad strode down the hall as quietly as possible. Much of the house was still asleep but the cleaners would but setting the downstairs to rights for another night of local carousing. The barkeep who recommended the House was good egg and Dorlad would see him again right soon. But first, he had to find the young Prince to make sure he found his feet again after a long night in a wet snatch.

The young whore that Bain had left with walked out of the door at Dorlad’s left, giving him a shock. She must have recognized him as Bain’s companion because she didn’t back away from him or refuse the coins he gave her. Her smile was tired as she drew the sheet about her body, leaving the room open behind her as she headed off for some sleep. The Dunedain’s eyes widened as he watched a male house slave tuck his meat into a set of black trousers. Bain was sitting on the side of the bed, pulling on his boots with his back to the door. The reprimand about never having his back open in a strange place fell silent as the slave leaned down to kissed Bain until the boy moaned and grabbed at the slave’s hips to hold him there. A deep laugh emanated from a dark throat as he pushed Bain back to the bed but walked away.

The Dale Prince righted himself to see the slave brush by Dorlad at the door. His expression turned sheepish. “Oh…morning.”

“Yeah.” Dorlad couldn’t muster more than that, staring at the young Man as if he had never seen him before.

Questions bloomed in his mind faster than his mouth could ask. Dorlad clenched his teeth to keep those unfiltered idiocies from jumping into the morning air. Bain rose from the bed, straightening his belt and tunic before grabbing his cloak. His gate was slow with a slight favoring to his left side.

“Well, I know someone in here took a pounding last night. Luckily, he didn’t kill you.” The Dunedain laughed at the furious blush that crept across his friend’s face. “Come on, we will hit the baths to loosen you up a bit. I imagine you are a bit sore for the ride you gave him.”

Bain swore at him as he walked away but the ranger took it in stride. Dorlad caught up with him at the door, hailing a sedan chair. Poor kid, the Dunedain thought with a grin as he watched him be littered off to the upper levels, the Dwarf will rag him harder when he finds out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wouldn't classify this entry as 'sad' not like the others. Bain regrets using the pair for his pleasure and hates the life they lead because they have no choice. Dorlad's attitude could use some work but I thought it might be more in line with the general opinion of the average man from the late Dark Ages which is the feel I get from Tolkien's work.  
> Herumor was a black numenorean who rose along with Fuinor rose in power among the Haradrium in the 2nd age after the Downfall of Numenor. Name is Quenya for Dark Lord  
> I wrote of the ‘Ripening Disease’ as a Hobbit version of Syphilis. It has had so many names in history, one more wouldn’t hurt.


	5. Bard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Gingerpie !
> 
> You'll do all the crazy things that you can't explain
> 
> ~When you love someone - Bryan Adams ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bard and the Umli Arbiter, Bais..

The sun had set on the day, giving Bard a sense of peace. The siege was done, ended. Sigrid was safe along with Dwarves of Erebor. His grandchildren would grow and thrive in the mountain with their Dwarven heritage. Life was as it should be.

Bard, King of Dale, poured himself a drink of good ale in his study, toasting himself in the reflection of glass. A job well done, the only life lost of any note was the Traitor Dain Ironfoot. Fili had sent a Raven to his encampment explaining the situation in broad terms. Bard watched a fox and squirrel fight in the golden scarlet evening, he knew that there was much more refinement to the Iron Dwarves leaving than the King under the Mountain would say. Dwarrows and their secrets, he mused as the vermillion bled into periwinkle blue.

The armor and weapons the Dwarves had sent would stay in Dale, Fili had been generous to that fact. Moreover it had been Bard who was generous to not explain that the city army wasn’t of an opinion to return them. It was fitting compensation for the loss of revenue the town had suffered due to the enforced closure. They would be scrambling to get the planting in now, hoping against hope that the fall weather was mild enough to permit a longer growing season.

He was just about to put the goblet down and take to his bed when a knock sounded on his door. Turning in curiosity, the door opened to reveal Durham his assistant in the door with a dark shape at his back. “My lord, you have a visitor.”

The cowl was swept away as the stranger entered, letting loose a mane of blinding hair to fall down her chest. The sight of her took Bard’s breath, excitement at Bais’ arrival making him grin. The Umli’s arrival was never planned, spontaneously showing up when the itch needed scratching. Tonight, her leather tunic was thickly padded, laced tight under prominent breasts for support. Curved more than a Daughter of Man might be, she was a taller version of a Dwarrowdam. Her miniscule chin braid was stark against ruddy skin.

She just looked at him, waiting for him to talk. He met her gaze at first, then faltered and looked away. There was something unnerving about her eyes. A toughness he had never seen in young women previous acquaintance, only Dwarrowdams could be so intimidating.

“Mistress Bais. You were not expected tonight.” Bard was civil until the door closed, praying that they house staff was packing up for the night. He despised gossip.

“I have brought you a farewell gift, King of Dale.” Bais stepped closer, her hand reaching to rub between his legs. “and I want a proper goodbye.”

Bard groaned and tried to bring her closer with one hand on her bottom and another on her arm. The ache of his stiffing member was thumping a drumbeat at the base of his skull. Not having any of it, Bais shook out his reach to walk from the room. The foot falls echoed in the house, then the higher tap and creak of weight on wood going up the stairs.

She wouldn’t ask his permission, Bais wasn’t his subject. He was drawn like a moth to her flame, following with unsteady feet to his chambers. In his bedroom, he was hers and it fell to him to satisfy her. The odd arrangement would cause hideous talk in Dale, word would spread that the King had submitted himself to an Umli Dwarf.

She kicked the door shut behind him once Bard cleared the threshold. His voice was rough already as the need leaked out his control. “I thought you would be celebrating at Erebor.”

Sweet darkness enclosed them both in loving arms. He moaned under searching hands and her active mouth as she nipped at the parts she could reach – his throat, his neck, the firm line of his jaw. The teeth were small and white as her hair, scrapping away his resistance. The marks would come, raised and dark against his pale skin. A path that could be followed down his body for she wasn’t a soft lover, nothing subtle in her command of his bed. It was safe to be this desperate in the darkness, because no one could see how weak he felt at this desire.

“Share yourself with me one last time, King of Dale.”

Bais moaned at his taste, the salted flavor of musk. Her white hair was a beacon as his eyes adjusted to the pitched black, her hands drew his around the room in an informal dance as clothes when flying at each revolution. His wife had been his only love and lover until Bais marched into his office and took over the protection of Erebor. He could not count the drunken fumblings between himself and Thranduil, the Elven King. There were little memories attached to his naked form after their late suppers. No, this was not like that at all, Bard was awake and painfully aware of each pinch and every drag of her tongue along his skin.

Whiter skin found a seam of light from the door, highlighting her large breasts that she bared with no little grace. The grays of the room shadowed her until the Umli female was illuminated by the gloom. She was not scared of her body, Bais knew her pleasure. Learning his own preferences had been a journey into a different realm of life, Bard had not known the bottom of it yet. The helplessness of his cravings, the near convulsions of the same when she took him in hand. Staring at the naked female, he doubted he would ever completely wrap his brain around it.

“How will I share myself, when you _take_ your pleasure, Mistress?” It was a near whine as close to it as he could manage when her fingers found his plinth to massage it through his pants.

“Give me your hands.” Bais grunted as she hooked her fingers into the top edge of pants to ease them down just far enough to free his erection.

Bard laid out his fists to her, wrists together as she liked. Bais pulled a length that tied her hair, twisting it around his hands in fast knots. She let her hands wander up his forearms in memory both old and new. She reveled in the way his muscles tensed under her touch, no matter if it was soft or stinging. There was a bite of pleasure to each and he cared little until that coaxing warmth eased into his tension.

It was cruel, almost debasing. The Umli female looped a leather braided rope around his neck tugging him by his neck to the bed. She was gentle, her hands warm and firm. Valar, it was perverse how she made him feel helpless and aroused at the same time. The clean, neat surface would be a wreaked sea of tossed sweaty material by dawn. Their congress there between them was as raw as cold snow with layers of heat as two bodies lunged into the other for gasping completion.

Bard fell into the bed with Bais quickly falling upon him. Her body slithered up his to tie up his hands to one of the posters. The Umli enjoyed his submission or else wanted just that level of control. Either situation was a clarion call to a line of thought that Bard wanted to ignore. He wanted to sink into her and let go of his cares for a night.

She straightened, her mons just before his face. He could smell her, a heated ecstasy that perfumed the air. Blond tight curls brushed his chin, scraping at his lips. The eroticism of the act of sucking her down made his cock just that much harder. He could see her clit peaking from her glistening slit, already hard and anxious. His tongue flicked out to graze her exposed flesh, but only for a endless moment. He kept moving, down her cleft until he was stretched out his tongue for more of the slick essence he craved.

“That’s enough, only a taste. This is our last night, King Bard.”

The female took his member, strattling his leg so that he could feel the slippery folds that pulsed with her desire. She liked tasting him. Bard watched her lean down to circle the crown of his cock in uninterrupted licks, indulging herself by exploring the difference between himself and her previous conquests. Bard begged for more, in drooling sentences of no real thought. A lewd music of sucking, the wet slap of his cock in her mouth was a counterpoint to his harsh breathing.

It wasn’t to last, she was too impatient for congenial romps. Bais pulled away from him with a sigh to answer his groan. The furtive frustration pushed Bard higher, as if his body were drunk on being denied. Sex was not so hot, so feral in his past. The gentle coupling that he knew with his wife had brought three children to his life. Surely, the burning fire that mixed between the arbiter and the King was too hot to conceive a child.

Bard watched the dizzying visual of his cock and balls caged within the walls of her blunt hands. The feel of his sensitive bits rolling in her work roughed fingers intensified as he swallowed her taste and licked his lips for more. Bard opened his mouth to speak but she pinched hard on his balls, pulling away the skin as she sat on the steel rod of his member. He almost blacked out from the extreme pain and pleasure at once, using his fingers to dig into his palms to find consciousness again as the orgasm washed him out of thought. It was not kingly, it was not generous of his title to beg but the sweet clinch of her body shoved away the concerns of a crown and the dignity of a throne.

The Bowman moaned, even as his hips lifted greedily, shamelessly. Her body surrounded his, infinitely warm and inviting that kept his cock hard even after coming. He tried to twist away from the intensity in that iced blue gaze, but Bais forced him back, forced him to stare up at her as she rode his member. Her clever fingers reached for his nipples, pinching them as she rose and sank in a steady rhythm. Bard couldn't tell if he was still coming or strung out on the edge of another orgasm.

Her next scratch left furrows across his chest. He choked out her name and drove deep. The sweet edge of discomfort that had made the rest bearable had vanished. His eyes lost focus, and his hips jerked. The noises torn from Bard against his will, sounds of pure, unadulterated pleasure, pressed Bais to a higher, excited rhythm. The ride was frantic, the female gripped his thighs with her own. Strong limbs used to long hours aback an animal hugged him close for the support to give him punishing bliss.

A high scream broke into his revelry, her wet grotto strangling his member until he couldn’t hold back anymore. His release poured from his body, yanking his pleasure effortlessly from every point. The last thing he remembered before he blacked out was her cooing her approval, grinding her sopping wet pussy against him.

_Morning_

The sun was a relentless surprise. Bard rolled over, annoyed that the bed curtains were not drawn along with the window drapes. His raw wrists were sensitive against the bedclothes, as was his cock. Once more Bais had ridden him, making him clean their combined excesses from her body after each spending. He loved that wild iron flavor, a rich liqueur of unimaginable delight. It would live in his memory and he would treasure it always. He would _miss_ her.

A pitched yip drew his notice to the gift Bais had left him, a puppy of one of her sled team. Bard looked over at the little beast who had pounced upon him, waking him from the fantastic dream of a wild woman of the North riding his cock. The animal was snow white, no markings of any color showed on the thick coat. Large paws fought his hand as he reached out to take the scruff of the neck and pull the puppy close.

The female mocked growled at him even from the prone position. “None of that, mistress.” Bard thumped the puppy’s nose as he cuddled it to him.

A fighter, like its former owner, it growled then licked his cheek. The rough tongue made the King of Dale chuckle at its antics as it wiggled from his arms and hop down the bed. Independent, and fierce too, the puppy barked at his leg as it moved under the blankets. I will have to think of a name for it, Bard thought with a sigh. The gust from him drew the pup’s attention, and its clear blue eyes. So much like his former mistress.

 _Bais_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry to all who love Bard but I have to say while I enjoy looking at him, I found him a tad limp. This makes him lively lol.. Yes there were sneaking references for Bardil lol..


	6. The Lady Thrud & Hugin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When you love someone you'll feel it deep inside  
> And nothing else could ever change your mind
> 
> ~When you love someone - Bryan Adams ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut !

 

“Where do you go today?” Her father’s voice interrupted her musings.

Thrud found herself lost in many daydreams of late, more of late than previously. Coughing into a fist, she continued to throw a few things into a rucksack. It was an odd assortment that let her hands look active while her brain attempted to find a compromise between a lie and the truth.

“I go with Silinde to Dale. She is working on some clothes for the unfortunates and was going to deliver them.” It was the truth, Thrud told herself. Silinde had wanted to get more clothes to Erebor house, the orphanage that Willa and the Queen had started. “I don’t want her to ride alone.”

The humph of acknowledgement wasn’t a refusal. Tindri wouldn’t refuse his daughter her friend, well he would if he knew she was meeting a Man in Dale. A quiver of excitement went through the Dwarrowdam at the thought of seeing Hugin, feeling him close to her body. They had been able to speak for a few stolen moments when a supply wagon had been escorted to the Mountain. Hugin had shouted her name so loudly, Thrud was certain her father had heard it down in the mines.

The siege had separated them for long months, many had refused to go to Dale or to Erebor. The road between had been swarming with Iron Dwarves, always at the ready to attack a caravan that contained none of Thulin’s Folk or the Umli. She was sure that he had forgotten her, moved on to find welcome in the arms of a Daughter of Man. But he hadn’t. Hugin took her hand in his that day, asking her to come to Dale when she could. His earnest expression released the fear she held all these months, thinking that his feelings had waned. The swipe of his thumb across her fluttering pulse spiked it higher than a raven in flight. Finally, he had left when the wagon was unloaded but only at the very last moment.

The Queen had asked her questions in previous months about her meetings with Hugin with a secret knowing smile. The enemy camped on their doorstep had bonded the Ladies of the Water Chamber together instead of ripping them to shreds. However, it wasn’t until then that Thrud worried over the difference in Dwarves and Men. Sigrid wore no beard, nor was there chest hair pushing higher than her neckline. Thrud knew the Queen didn’t shave her body, that daughters of Men only had hair on their head and second beards between their legs. At later life, some might have a few hairs at their chin or above their lip but not as a rule was it considered praiseworthy.

Pushing away those thoughts of differences and trying to get herself together, Thrud kissed her father goodbye as she ran to meet Silinde outside the gates. If she passed people of her acquaintance, she was blind to them, hurrying down corridor and hall. She remembered stolen kisses and nervous caresses from a tall man who made her blood pound in longing. Her excitement gave her wings to fly from the Mountain towards the one who held her heart.

Uri stood with his wife as she mounted a large bay pony. The pretty girl loved Uri, his gentle happiness and loving concern for her. A pony had been brought for Thrud, an older mare that was used to an inexperienced rider. The Dwarrowdam nodded to the Sigrid’s guard before laying heals in her haste to get to Dale. Silinde yelled behind her, but Thrud turned a deaf ear as she raced the pony for the Overlook.

Silinde rode a larger mount, overtaking the Dwarrowdam at the end of the pass. “If you do not have a care, you will fall and break your fool neck!” The woman chided in exasperated tones. “Thrud, I will not take your broken body home if you do not stop this hysterics!”

“I am in a hurry is all.” The blond Dwarf tried to say though Silinde cut her off with a laugh.

“Hugin will be happy to see you! He won’t be happy if you’re dead!”

Her words fell out of reach, for when the trail opened up again, Thrud gave rein to the pony once more. She wasn’t cruel, never that to push the animal beyond endurance. The two ladies spoke no more as they came into view of the outer rim scouts into Dale, some calling a greeting to Silinde. The tensions with the Iron Hills had fractured some of the relations between Dale and Erebor, but summer held hope of renewal. A Dwarrowdam was given notice but as she was accompanied by a former resident, no one stopped them.

The gates into the city were open, yet guards milled about the entrance with a kind of benign observance. The worst had passed them when the invaders had left months ago. Thrud slowed her pony to walk behind Silinde, allowing her the deal with the post command rather than herself. The less said brought about notice from those who might remark upon her presence. It was ill fate that had them at the gate at the same time as the young prince of Dale.

“Silinde!” Prince Bain greeted her, then nodded his head to Thrud. “My Lady. What brings the Mountain to Dale on this fine summer day?”

Silinde, having been an old friend of the royal family of Dale, chuckled in greeting to the Prince as she bowed at the waist. It was proper for her do so, though the young Prince waived her off in an exasperated fashion. Long acquaintances might have the freedom to be less than totally respectable but the daughter of Man who claimed Uri as her husband gave respect humbly to her Queen and Line of Girion at every opportunity.

“My Prince, I come bearing clothes for Erebor house. And the Lady Thrud..” She left off the rest with another giggle as the Prince took up her humor.

This is taking too long, the Dwarrowdam thought with impatience. Clouds rolled by overhead, spotting the ground beneath them in running shadows. She shifted upon the pony, drawing the Prince’s attention again. He was heading to Lake Town by the looks of the party behind him. A wagon full of plank boards and barrels were pulled by a team of oxen. A young male walked at their side, the rope from their nose rings swinging in the light breeze.

“My Lady Thrud, I was wondering if you might deliver a message for me? Hugin, the city Captain, has today off from duty. I need him to come to Girion house in the morning before he leaves out to check the outer rim.” The smile was bland, or so she would have thought except there was particular twinkle in the Prince’s eye that made Thrud’s hackles rise. He was teasing her, knowing that she would see the Captain before she left today.

Despising being the butt of anyone’s joke, Thrud bowed her head but kept eye contact with Bain as he walked closer. She pushed away her annoyance with him, drowning it the excitement of the idea that Hugrin was free from his duties. The Dwarrowdam clicked to the pony, setting off in the direction of his residence. Silinde would be at Erebor house, just a few house rows down from the main gate. She would know here to find Thrud if something was needed.  

Cutting to the right down a wide street then into a smaller alley, Thrud kept the pony at a walk so as not to trample any of the young children who played off their stoops. Hugin’s home was larger than the one he had in Lake Town, he was quite proud of it. The only other time she had been there had been when a quick rain storm had swept in from the lake, drenching them as they ran from the square. Hugin had let Thrud into his home in order to lend a towel and some privacy. He had been a gentleman the whole time, much to her confused dismay.

Arriving at his house, she quickly dismounted to tie up the pony to the ring near a low trough. The pony moved to dip her head into the water as Thrud loosened the girth a few notches. Having no idea how long she would be, it seemed unfair to not give the animal some respite.   I will just knock and give him the message, Thrud thought, his children might be home. Hesitantly, she let her closed fist fall upon the wood door.

It was new, freshly painted in a beautiful design since last she had come here. Along the bottom were handprints in different colors, testifying to the age of the occupants. Several sets were small with thin fingers of a child or a young girl, some were broad and others were wide with short fingers. Thrud knew that he had a son and daughter. Seeing their testimony made her smile that much wider. She wondered if Mahal would grace her with a child of his one day.

Shaking away those thoughts of lasciviousness, the Dwarrowdam straightened her dress and brushing away some of the dust from her trip. She frowned at her forward thoughts in regards to this Man. Had she learned nothing from Herja’s fall from grace? To court a male was proper, to lust after his form with no thought of her actions save getting into his pants was flying the face of all she had been taught to believe. There were rituals, procedures in place so that it was a binding covenant for their long lives. But Hugin’s life was not so long as hers. For truth, it was more than half over!

The opening door cut off the length of her mental diatribe. A large Man filled the doorway. “Thrud?”

He was wiping his hands on a piece of cloth, his linen shirt stretched wide across his barrel chest. The Lady had to take a minute to unstick her tongue from the roof of her mouth. “ah..yeah..ah. Hello!”

“Hello!” He said with a huge grin. He gestured behind him, permitting her entry to his home. “My children are at the lake today with my brother’s family.”

She followed him into the front room, with two divans pushed against the walls. Earth tones of tanned leather and undyed pale wool decorated the area, like as she remembered. Hugin paused, lifting her hands to kiss her fingers, keeping eye contact as it did so. His touch, might have been innocent, should have been blameless, yet those full lips on her skin made her gasp. It was contact, an ignition source that sweep through her to shove a light moan of desire from her lips.

Hugin froze, bent over her hand, for a moment with a predatory gleam in his eyes. “I dream of you..”

It was as far as he got before they, Man and Dwarrowdam, crashed together in a desperate kiss. Nothing mattered then except the need they shared, and Thrud definitely shared it. It was better than her memories of them during the winter where his lips had warmed her from within. Like fire it was, the feeling that grew inside her once more. It was so consuming she barely noticed when he started undressing her, until his hands were reaching bare flesh across her back, and she couldn’t help noticing that, it was such a sensual shock. Thrud struggled with it for one a moment, feeling the gasping want cloud her brain until she noticed his hands pulling away her leather corset to fondle her breasts.

He stilled as if waking from a dream to realize what he was doing, _attempting_ to do. Hugin looked sheepish for the first time as he took a seat on the divan closest to the river rock fireplace. “I …I have no excuse. Please, forgive me Thrud, I am rushing us. You are so beautiful and it has been so long…”

“I will care about excuses later.” She told him as she pulled him to lips once more, chasing the liqueur of rapture that she drank from him. Moving between his legs, Thrud wanted bare skin, his hands and to hell with the consequences.

His lips began to move on her, branding a heated trail across her cheek to her neck. His tongue flicked at her ear, her chin braids as Thrud trembled with the pleasure. Down his lips moved, over her shoulder to chase bare skin he revealed as he pulled away her shirt. Along the side of her breast, underneath to lick and nuzzle her chest hair, then up to capture the pebbled nub and draw it deeply into the heat of his mouth. The sensation spiraled down to her belly, still farther to her loins, where it gathered in a seething mass to destroy the last of her inhibitions. Thrud arched her body towards his drawing mouth and searching hands. Hugin knew his business, the rough suction, the hint of teeth, the way it shot pleasure straight to her most secret pearl.

His fingers carded through the fine golden pelt layered from her breasts down to brush her thicker second beard. She could feel his hands shake as they roamed. “My beauty, I can’t tell you how much seeing you naturally affects me. You are the most divine creature the gods have created.”

Hugin lifted her, setting her beside him on the divan. Quickly, he pulled off his shirt to slide into her arms. She moaned like a wanton, and cared not a bit. This sensation was more than she had hoped, or dreamed to feel so much and need so much more. Her male kissed down her body, nibbling at her skin and nuzzling the fleece that encased her body.

“Please, my love, take of me…I want..” She couldn’t finish, his mouth was upon hers. Claiming, taking until she had no breath to express her desire.

His own skin was so smooth and yet, unyielding as she pushed away his pants. Thrud wondered at so little hair that he possessed on his chest sprinkled so liberally with grey. For a Man so strong, he was gentle. When his hands, his arms, his mouth was on her, he moved as if afraid she might shatter if held too tightly. She would lie against him for eternity and feel no worry, or sadness, or anxiety. Thrud only felt beautiful. And richly desired.

His lips latched upon her nipple again as his hands weeded themselves in hair on her belly, touching and stroking her. After what seemed like an endless time, he let go of one nipple to capture the other. She grabbed the back of his head, terrified that he'd try to pull away and rob her of the way her body pulsed with each clash of tongue. She was hungry, starving for this feeling, the giddy wanting feeling. More heat shot down the invisible cord to her pulsing furrow. She was going up in flames being so close to the inferno that was his body.

Hugin’s fingers, slimmer than a Dwarrow’s, combed through the curls of her second beard at the junction of her thighs. They were already damp, almost an embarrassment of her unfulfilled desire. Shivering, he could feel the slickness of her response between the folds as he rubbed insistently. His fingers moved quickly up and down her furrow, splitting the seam to expose her nubbin to the afternoon air. Hugin shuddered against her now, sucking harder at her nipples. The pleasure rocked her, unable to stay still as he licked at her breasts with his hand working feverishly between her legs.

When he found her erect clit, Thrud cried out loud, clamping her legs around his hand. Her hips bucked in rhythm with his palm. Grabbing his face, she kissed him, their tongues mating and tangling together. The passion was too much, reminding her of the empty vessel between her legs. She wanted him, needed him to fill her. Her nails clawed at his back, increasing his passion too. Their breathing was in short choppy exhalations, her body rising to meet each flick of his fingers.

“Hugin! Please!” Thrud gasped, tearing her face away. “It is unbearable.”

He nudged her until she was flat on her back with legs parted and slightly raised. Hugin’s body was firm for his age, not hard like one of her race could be. Thrud welcomed the difference, his body enflaming her beyond endurance. He covered her with his body, sweaty from the exertion of his control. He positioned his cock at the damp entrance of her pussy, giving her every opportunity to say no. But it wasn’t no that passed her full lips, only an endless stream of pleadings.

Thrud was a maid but had no fear of the act. Her heart thumped hard in anticipation as her fingers dug into his thick shoulders. It was too much, too intense with his body shifting restlessly against her thighs. Her taut flesh embraced the head, giving him resistance more than her patent did as he pressed slowly inside her channel. She gasped, a surprise of lust and interest at so little pain for the entry.

Hugin paused, gritting his teeth with a hoarse strained voice asked. “Am I hurting you?”

Tucking her legs about his, Thrud wrapped her arms about his body. “No Lansel, please give me all of you. Love me!”

Hugin withdrew slowly, a fraction of an inch at a time. He slid back inside with the same deliberation, watching her reactions to adjust his angle. Thrud gasped again, her head tilting back. She lifted her hips ever so slightly, pulling him closer, deeper. Reveling in the feeling of their joining, the outrageous bliss, moans tripped from her lips in an endless parade. Their congress was slow, his attention was tender. Deep thrusts and the hateful withdrawal to couple with the awful sense of emptiness. Her breathing was fast and labored, the muscles of her pussy clenching his member in a vain attempt to hold him there and never let go.

Her male shuddered, his hand cupping her cheek up to meet his lips. “I love you, so very much.”

Hugin smiled, and began a slow, sensuous thrusting. He lowered his head again to kiss her. Her lips clung to his, her arms wrapped tight around his neck, and tighter still as the tension mounted again. And then the throbbing was back, bursting over her senses, surrounding him, and he plunged deep, grinding into her, enhancing it, his own head thrown back to emit a low, animal sound of pure pleasure.

Her hips moved in a sinuous dance, circling his cock. “Yes..” Thrud groaned, her voice a steeled purring. “So good, my Hugrin. Pleaseee..”

Her eagerness fueled his, giving speed to his thrusts. The loud slap of flesh against flesh delighted her more than anything. She locked her ankles around his waist, yanking him home with each stroke desperate for orgasm swelling inside her. Thrud wanted to be loud, to scream the Mountain down with the force of her rapture. This Man, Hugin, she would claim as her own. She clawed at his back, leaving welts and drawing blood. Her marking of his body only spurred him on. He thrust harder, tucking his arms under her knees to pull her hips higher to take his thick member. Hugrin bucked against her, wild and frenzied. Her eyes locked with his as their bodies heaved together climbing for the ultimate peak.

Thrud threw back her head, letting loose a long groan as his cock pushed her over the edge. She thrashed as Hugin continued pounding atop her, coming again and again until her belly was sore from the spasms, wondering if there was a limit to his stamina. She felt his breath on her neck, then teeth on her ear as his thrust slowed to powerful strokes. Her muscles coiled, one last climax racked her body as Hugrin released his seed, growling her name in exhale.

The Man’s weight was more than Thrud expected, feeling the press of longer legs and body. He understood her shiftings, rolling to the side so that she could breathe. His heartbeat thumped beneath her ear, steady and soothing, and the warmth of his body wrapped around her, but she couldn't stop trying to memorize the details. The weight of his arm over her, the press of his thigh, the way the hair on his chest felt under her palm as she spread her fingers wide. Maybe if she filled her head with enough good things, the bad ones would topple out the back.

“Do not go.” He whispered. “Do not leave me, please… Thrud.”

“I cannot stay with you just now, not until I claim you before our families.” She kissed him again, resolved and angered by it. Thrud didn’t want to leave him either. “My brother and I will come to Dale since my father will not. He will be my witness and your brother and children will be yours. I will take you for my love of all loves.”

This had been a hurtle before, the discussion of family. Hugin understood after she had explained their customs, albeit most would be offended at her present state. He had no argument over how to proceed with their relationship, only that being together meant she would have to live in Dale rather than Erebor. Thrud knew she would walk to the ends of the earth for him.

They clasped the other, Thrud encouraging their second bout of lovemaking. The afternoon waned under the pressure of a travelling sun, reminding the Dwarrowdam that she would need to leave. It was hard, the white pillows with the slight smears testified that she had given of herself to another. He clutched her to him, helping her dress and finally to follow her to the gates and Silinde.

The ladies didn’t speak on the way home, the bleak mood was harsher than the low clouds hanging to the west. The constant thump of the saddle irritated her already tender thighs, annoying her to the end of her patience. There would come a time, her time with her love, where she would sleep at his side and greet each day in his arms.

**88**

_2 Days Later_

The knock on the door turned to pounding when Thrud failed to rise quickly. Mornings after an exhausted night of little sleep were not kind to her. A note had been slipped under her door sometime in the night, summoning the Dwarrowdam to the Water Chamber. It lay on a side table where she left it after rising to get some ale, hoping the alcohol would make her sleep. She was blurry still as she walked to door, pulling on a robe as she went.

Relkar leaned against the jam, saying nothing. He was early, giving her time to find the appropriate garments. He was a lean Dwarf, narrow through the hip and shoulders. It wasn’t that he was immature, his whole family cast a small shadow. It was one of the reasons he was such a good hunter for the Mountain before taking service with the Queen. He wasn’t Hugin, Thrud thought and sighed. She had been comparing every Dwarf from the King’s Justice to every Iron Dwarf she had met against the large Man of Dale. They all fell short, literally in some regard. Hugrin was her paragon.

He showed her into a quiet chamber with only the Athane and her babes upon a divan. The little girls were a blessing and many counted it so, a true gift of Mahal. Sigrid was trying desperately to keep up with the feedings of two greedy Dwarflings but there was already talk of a wet nurse to help share the load. The Queen was changing a nappy, giggling along with the baby.

She looked up at the entrance and her smile ran away from her face, only to return under protest. “Good morning, Lady Thrud. I apologize for calling upon you so early, taking you from your rest.”

I dream of rolling around with Hugin and awake with my hand between very wet thighs, my lady. It was the first thought that sprang to her head, yet Thrud knew better than to be so crass with the Queen or so very blunt. Thekk would need another discussion before she tied him to a pony for an enforced ride to Dale. Thrud smiled and bowed to the Queen, all the while plotting on how to kidnap her brother.

“I am well, Majesty.”

“Come. Sit.” Sigrid gestured to the row of chairs before her near a sideboard. “Have you been to Dale of late, my Lady?”

Thrud was in the process of sitting. Caught off guard at the question, she froze halfway down. “uhm, yes, Athanu Men. Two days past. I saw your brother, the young Prince, on his way out of the city.”

One of the babes cooed, kicking little feet in the long dress. Tuffs of blond hair were visible as the Queen lifted one child only to rub the belly of the other. Thrud could see bright blue eyes winking in curiosity at her while her sister grunted. Bifur’s pram, a low cart that had been redesigned from mine use, stood in the corner. It served as both a mobile carrier and rolling bassinette for the babies. Many a Dwarrowdam had looked upon the contraption with envy.

The Queen looked tense as she laid one child in the push confines of the cart. She sighed as she took the other babe from the divan. “Did you happen to see Hugrin while you were there?”

A knock at the door sounded through the chamber, causing the curious reaction of Sigrid’s shoulders to slump in relief. Uri admitted the Lady Olrun, dressed in a fine green dress with lighter green peeking through slashes in the material. She hurried into the room, sweeping into a bow before the Queen.

Lady Olrun was out of breath as she rose. “I apologize, Athanu Men! I have no excuse for being tardy..”

The Queen cut her off with a high pitched nervous laugh as she stole at glance at Thrud. “Marriage is enough of an excuse, my lady.” Clearing her throat, she began again. “Lady Thrud, I have asked the Lady Olrun to be here with us today. Late last night I received news from my father. There was an Orc attack at the outer rim yesterday.” Looking to Olrun, Sigrid leaned forward and took Thrud’s hands. “Hugin was injured in the attack. He left this life before they could get him to a healer.”

Hugin… _dead_? A loud buzzing rang in her ears just before Thrud fainted away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lansel - Khuzdul for Love of All Loves
> 
> I felt a little off about writing about two OCs from my story but Thrud has a minor part so far in the sequel..I hated to kill off a fun character but not everyone lives forever....
> 
> Next chapter is rather dirty: Sarumon, Herja & Lifa 10 years later at Isengard.


	7. Saruman and his Women

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dead I am the life, dig into the skin  
> Knuckle crack the bone, twenty one to win  
> Dead I am the dog, hound of hell you cry  
> Devil on your back, I can never die 
> 
> ~ Rob Zombie - Dragula~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Graphic sex F/Orc/ possibly F.. mentions of rape READ AT YOUR RISK  
> Reminders...  
> Sirn Ashan – Herja – estranged Dwarrowdam from Erebor  
> Sirn Sadan – Lifa, daughter of Aeldklif of Helm’s Deep

 

Saruman strolled along the domed corridor to a subterranean level of Orthanc Tower, with two lesser Orcs at his back. There were favorite places in the tower, areas of learning and magic that touched his mind to feed his soul. The cavern where he travelled now didn’t fall into that description.

He walked at a pace, an Istari, a Maia of Aulë, did not sully himself with disgraceful practice of running. The Crebain had returned with the news from the southeast that was both positive to the cause he undertook and purposeful to Lord Sauron’s endgame. While the battles of far places affected the White Wizard little, one of his guests might be profoundly influenced. There might be tears and hysterics that will whip the Orcs into a frenzy that he might not be able to control.

Contrary to what most people think, weeping wasn't an uncontrollable emotion that spills into tears. It's the opposite, a channel for feelings, a way to divert them in a healthy direction. But Saruman didn’t want healthy outlets, personally he didn’t want any at all. Gandalf had posed the theory of the White Wizard’s continued mockery of human emotion, calling his piety into question. If they began articulating their thoughts, it invariably ended in an argument where Saruman always felt the loser which he despised. At times Ol’ Sharkey privately agreed with the Gray Pilgrim: they were united by their common origin. Mostly, he felt a greedy type of envy for the Olorin and his benign reach into Arda.

Freedom had a thousand faces. But so did crime that warped into justice. Numenor had brought light to a distant land of nothing, their greatness bled out into a population of wild and untamed. The result was a line of kings both inspiring and disappointing. Some Men are saints. Some are happy being meek and humble and unambitious. Some Men are born content to be second-best. Even the lowest born found courage, like Aeldklif of Rohan had at the end. The thought of what Man might do made him dizzy.

Life had taught him something far more complicated than impartiality. Its name was balance, a scale of things that made sense even if the apparatus did not. In war and in peace, a good enemy can be more valuable than a good ally. It was hard to refer to Sauron in this fashion, though Saruman had been educated by the Palantir and by extension, Sauron himself. It was more than knowledge, it was tangible in a way that feeling wasn’t. Words had shape, dexterity where Saruman could pluck them from the air for closer scrutiny or bat them away like flies. The White Wizard absorbed, understanding all manner of things that pushed his equilibrium further from center, things that were not meant for the realms outside of gods. Time had no single quantity other than it could be like frost or lightning or a tear or siege or storm or sunset, or even like a rock. It simply was, as Saruman was.

He walked into a wide circular room, where light and dark became a gray twilight. Torches illuminated the wrongness of the setting, throwing bright relief on what should always be in shadow. The high ceilings bounced their carnal grunts in an endless cycle that rolled into each. The volume was not unbearable to him, though he wished to be far from here. He had interrupted another breeding session.

Two drowning people can't save each other. All they can do is drag each other down. These two had made their proverbial bed, now they rutted together in it like beasts of the field. The defilement of what might have a sacred place might have turned the stomachs of others, notably Gandalf the gray. What they did, what they were trying to accomplish would change the landscape of war in the coming years. Every monster had a beginning, so why not Isengard for a birthplace?

The Dwarf, Sirn Ashan, lay nude to the side of the copulating pairing, the Rohir female used the Dwarrowdam’s swollen pregnant belly as a pillow. Sirn Ashan refused her Khazad name, ignored it completely and Saruman if he used it. The stubborn nature of Dwarves was legendary, and a hopeful trait that the Dark Lord wanted bred into the new generation of Orc. Though, the Dwarrowdams were not as fertile as the Rohirric female, this was her third pregnancy that she had borne here in Orthanc in the last ten years. Her two other sons, half Orcs, were in the nursery as their mother gave encouragement to the Mannish girl as the Orc atop her bent her legs back further and fucked her deeper.

The Orcs that scuttled around Isengard had taken to the Dwarf woman, formerly known as Herja, because she appeared more intimidating than most of them. The tribes of goblins instantly welcomed her to their bloodthirsty ranks, her sexual relations with them a great betting sport. At this her tenth year, the preposterous ‘dam demanded an anniversary present, a gift of death to Erebor by using his Crebrain birds as the instrument. Saruman had yet to make up his mind on the subject, debating whether what she asked would cause the most damage to the Dwarves.

The loud roaring of the Orc signaled his release, using the Rohan girl’s ankles as leverage to push from her. Sirn Sadan let go of her long white limbs, gaping wide to show the ravaged furrow between them. Gray Orc seed oozed from her pussy in a slimy trail, resembling an infection so close to her sunlight starved body. The male staggered from the platform, used up if his shriveled appendage was a correct indication. The female’s eyes were closed with a dreamy smile on her face as the Dwarrowdam behind her whispered quietly into her ear.

It was a mistake to allow the Orc Mothers access to the other, the White Wizard realized as he watched the pregnant female kiss the Rohan girl’s ear. They'd fed one another's insanity, changing the dynamic completely of the structure that Saruman had established. The Dwarrowdam had taken the potion, the recessed evil of it strengthened her need for revenge. Sirn Sadan was a different animal, she fucked for the love of fucking. Together they had already killed two Dunlending females that Orcs had brought, declaring them unfit to be whores much less an Orc Mother.

Sirn Ashan kept her two babes with her at all times except when she took her Snaga for mating. No doubt this third child would find a place in her den, swaddled and cossetted as the others. Saruman had the belief that had not been disproved that Dwarf women possessed the power over their fertility. Great energy coursed through them, making them one with both metal and rock to know where to find each. If that were true, if they had that much control, the Dwarves might overrun the face of Arda if they chose.

Sirn Sadan was different than her cohort, different in every way. Once she was called Lifa, daughter of Aeldklif of Helm’s Deep, a child of the Horselords. Now, she had borne seven children of both Orc and Dunlending fathers. She was completely uncaring of who crawled between her soft thighs, demanding a hard ride from the males for her trouble. The children were a good foundation, or should be as many as the female had birthed. She calmly looked the baby over then gave it to a waiting hand. Saruman had to take wet nurses from the Wild men to keep the children alive for the Rohan mother refused to nurse them. As far as he was aware, Lifa or Sirn Sadan made no effort to see her children after she gave them up.

Years and years and moons so long ago there was almost no record, the Dark Lord had sent his Orcs for what would have been the first Mother, rather than accepting a Mannish girl and an expelled Dwarrowdam. An Elleth of incredible lineage, delivered upon a platter, so to speak. Celebrian, the daughter of the Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn had been returning to her family in Rivendell, when her party was beset by Orcs and slaughtered. They dragged the she Elf into a cave where three of them raped her for days. The potion they poured down her throat to enforce compliance was not the same draft that was used upon the great Mothers as they were called. It was a first brewing that only partially cut away her link to her family. There was not hate in her soul to feed its progress, only the pain of ripping arrows that pinned her to earth, and the stabbing Orc members.

Her sons came for her, killing the Goblins and spiriting her back to Rivendell. Years fled by but Celebrain withered as a result of her capture. When hope of recovery was lost, when the night couldn’t swallow her screams of torment, the wife of the Great Lord Elrond took the ship for Valinor. In his darkest moments, possibly ale filled, Saruman wondered if the good daughter of the Lady of Light left her marriage bed because she found her husband lacking next the rod of an Orc.

Nodding to the keepers, the Orcs and Wildmen, who made sure no harm came to the females, Saruman spoke with a booming tone. “Sirn Sadan. A word, if you please.”

It’s the wizard, he heard the Dwarrowdam hiss. He knew that he was noted by her as soon as he entered, though the one he wished to speak to had been too far into her pleasure to notice another. One day, the Rohirric whore would pick the wrong Orc or Wild Man to take to her bed and end up on someone’s spit.

“Whattt..” Sirn Sadan slurred, waving a hand in his direction. “Can you not see I am working hard for the grace of our master?”

Saruman stared at her, saying nothing. He had found that a forceful stare was oft times better than speech. Minutes trickled by with him calming watching and stroking his beard as the female rolled into the Dwarrowdam at her back. The two nestled into the filthy bedding, giggling over some spite or hurt they had inflicted. Finally realizing that he wasn’t leaving her to her sport, the female snarled and wiggled herself from the platform.

Sirn Sadan wore no clothes but that was not unusual, declaring them to be a hindrance when there was a cock in the room. That she had tried to pry into his white robes for the first two years of her life here was a trial, that she thought he might want her was ludicrous. Tall with flaxen blond hair of the Rohan people, her black eyes stared back in annoyance. As long as she remained enthralled to the Great Eye, they would remain the color of a rotted corpse. Gray trails of Orc seed were dried across her breasts and into the ends of her long hair. Saruman looked no further at her appearance, wishing he could block out the smell of her unwashed body as easily as she could.

“I have news of Rohan, Lady Lifa.” He used that name particularly, a reminder of her past before she came to him. “Your Lord father, Aeldklif, was killed by Wildmen on his way from Edoras.”

There was no reaction at first, nary a blink. “Was that all, Wizard?”

“I thought you..”

Sirn Sadan cut in quickly. “You thought wrong, Lifa of Rohan is dead. My master has given me this life, Orcs to fuck and an army to bear for his service.” She stepped closer, showing rotting teeth as she smiled. “My children shall be glorious and cut the name of Sauron into the beating heart of Rohan. A generation will die under the heel of the Orc and they will not recover.”

The level of vehemence from her was surprising since the wizard had not thought she still had higher working functions outside of a vertical surface. Even now, she walked away to one of the Wild men at the perimeter of the room to stroke at the fur covered male. The two of them peeled away his clothes in a hurried fashion, like life might end or all the air would turn to sand if the rutting didn’t happen immediately. Sirn Sadan pushed him upon the stage as the White Wizard turned away. He had no need to linger in their den.

He wasn’t a male other than to be anatomically of that gender. There was no desire, lust or need for flesh. It was for power, knowledge to gain more and the drive to be in control that consumed the White Wizard. The Istari had little need for flesh to motivate life other than for the basic existence, yet the Valar had clothed them in bodies of old Men with the possibility of every weakness that Man might have. There was joy, pain, hunger, and most assuredly greed.

Saruman thought forward as he walked away, turning from the distasteful to the current problem. The Orc Mothers might bear children until their lives expired from the stress of it, but the children grew at an nominal rate. Considering their mixed heritage, they might live anywhere from a hundred to five hundred years. Their immortality was not assured, their aging might be slow or rapid. The Great Eye could not wait so long for these half Orcs to grow at normally, fifty years might see a different Middle Earth altogether.

The White Wizard walked out a balcony to the gaze upon the surrounding green land of the vale. Four towers of magnificent construction rose from the ring of Isengard, riven from the bones of the earth in the ancient torment of the hills. If the bones, the rock, crafted of man using their flesh, blood and sweat as mortar to pile stone upon stone to spear the sky, then it was a monument of power. The trees, nut and fruit, were old fed from the same life as Fangorn. The wooded power, blessed by Ents and by extension Orome and Yavanna, rooted deep into the fecund dirt, taking needed vitality and giving back its own energy. The soil of Isengard was its own bounty after so many years of trees, gods and men giving back to it. It might be used to grow a crop of a different variety.

Uruk Hai.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, this went further than even I was comfortable. Not sure that that says about me as a person to write something that slightly icks me.. This story was more how Lifa had changed, and didn’t care that her father had died. She was so damaged by Sauron that being told her father was dead was an annoyance, taking away from her fucking.
> 
> In LOTR, you see the Urak Hai being born or cut from membranes in the caverns below Isengard. I thought this might be an easier explanation on how that came about. To me, the trees were part of Yavanna and Orome, so they were good but the Uraks were a contamination where Saruman used the roots and soil as incubators.  
> Olorin is another name for Gandalf, one that Saruman might use.


	8. Princess Rota & Burin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You'll shoot the moon, put out the sun  
> When you love someone
> 
> ~Bryan Adams - When you love someone~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rota, daughter of Thane Fili Baknul & Princess Sigrid of Dale & Burin, Captain of the Queen's guard

Third Age 2989 Forty Seven Years after BOTFA

There are things in life to aspire, things we wish, hope.. _pine_.

Rota understood those things, she lived those things. It was what had awakened her in the middle of the night, it was why she stared at the door of her chambers. As a Princess of Erebor and one of the twin daughters to the Thane Fili Baknul, her life was inspired, something others _aspired_. So how could it be lacking? It was hard to explain that there was divide in her life that was different from the norm, a part of herself that she couldn’t explain away. It wasn’t Khazad, this dark half of urges that she called it, something that was from her Amad’s bloodline maybe.  

_Her Amad_

Automatically, the young princess’ thoughts went to her mother and shied away. The duality of wanting to think of her and not pushed Rota from her bed to pace the floor. There was pain to that particular mine shaft, a cutting feeling of loss that didn’t seem to abate. It was just as hard to see the death tattoos on her father’s face, the markings of their love in bold sculpted color. It was his final gift to his wife until they met again at the second coming. Fresh grief shrouded the daughter, wishing for more time, more love and laughter. But it was not to be. At least, Queen Sigrid had seen the marriage of her Eldest who had been campaigning for the rites since he had turned thirty-five!

Fian had taken his One, married Vigdis, daughter of Olgr in high style. Every dignitary of note and some that weren’t, made the journey to watch the Crown Prince of Erebor marry. Though, she might be elder than he and a First Spear of her sounder for Lord Thorin Stonehelm, the negotiations were lengthy. When the whereins and why-fors were dotted and crossed, the language of their contract one of the most elaborate in over a century. Fian had snuck out to her camp upon the rise many nights, feeding rumors that Vigdis was already bearing when they walked into the Gallery of Kings to ask for Mahal’s benevolence. The ones who bet upon a child born to the Line of Durin before the year’s end wore long faces for their loss. It would be next year before the Vidgis, wife of Fian gave birth to their child which would by all rights be a male.

Rota smiled at the thoughts of her older brothers, their comradery and affection. Both Fian and Vian were sons of Durin, alright. Where Fian had wasted no time in finding his One, nigh from childhood, Vian was more quietly observant. He was not so rushed to tuck into an arrangement, learning to battle their enemies from the Iron Hills like any of Durin’s folk. He was strong, with every bearing that a Dwarrow might possess. Blond with their mother’s height, the two males towered over many of their kin. Why Vian rode a small horse rather than a pony!

Thinking of her brothers, Rota knew that the time was upon her to be as bold as they. In fact, time was against her for _he_ would leave with the main body of Balin’s force by midmorning! Grabbing her shawl from the end of her unmade bed, Rota hurried from the room. She caught a glimpse of herself in the frosted glass on the other side of the room. Her family braid was still straight and true, a blond arrow amongst the curly wool that made up her hair. Her beard was unbound as well, dark golden wisps against pale skin. Her night shift was askew, twisted around her curved form until she straightened it with a snap. The blue was dark enough to hide her body from guards or the stray persons about their own business so late at night. Snarling at her disheveled reflection once more, she quickly braided a thick plat in her hair to keep it under some control.

She didn’t stop to contemplate the result of her actions, nor did she care if they might be rashly done. The hot blood stirred in her, making her frantic at the thought of his leaving tomorrow. Rota had served her family in all things, learning her duty by her mother, Sigrid, and grandmother Dis’ example. She had quietly stood for her family when Amad had met her end, was the shoulder for her brothers as they screamed and cursed at Sigrid’s loss. Kara, her older sister, had been despondent almost grieving herself into a stupor. It was Dis who had stepped forward to take them in hand, to make the necessary arrangements for their lives. Rota didn’t refused to consider what going to a male’s chambers in the middle of the night would do her grandmother. Love was not enough of an excuse. Rota couldn’t let him go without doing everything possible to stop him, even if he didn’t want to be stopped.

Her sister had been easier, it was true. Love unfolded naturally for Kara out of a beautiful friendship, as a golden-hearted rose slipping from its green sheath. There wasn’t the ripped feeling of thorns in the flesh when her love ignored her, no desperation of loneliness in the night after _he_ left for the Ered Luin with her Uncle Kili. Thorin Stonehelm courted her sister sweetly, reverently. It was no pantomime or playacting. His hands shook like trembling leaves when she smiled or blushed. Kara was quiet in her affection, demure while others whispered that Rota was almost torrid. Night and day, the gossips hushed in corners and the taverns.

Kara will be a Dwarrowdam who would make small demands on life, who will never let on that she too had sorrows, disappointments, dreams that have been ridiculed. A female of the Line of Durin who will be like a rock in a riverbed, enduring without complaint, her soul not sullied but shaped by the turbulence that washes over her. Already Rota saw something behind her sister’s eyes, something deep in her core that neither Erebor nor the Iron HIlls will be able to break or mold to its benefit. Something as hard and unyielding as the Arkenstone. Thorin Stonehelm had but to see the treasure that he was given in her love. Something that, in the end, will be his undoing and at the same time, his salvation.

Behind every pretty thing, there's some kind of agony. A measure must be given for perfection. It’s an abrasive feeling of steel on stone where the view is just as painful as touching. It was like that for Rota when she watched Burin. It was a wholly new and not unwelcomed sensation to be consumed by the desire, the longing, she possessed. It made her understand her uncle and parents so much easier now, when before it had been just confusing.

Obsession or compulsion, Rota didn’t know, but she did know that she would end up with Burin claimed as her own this day or someone would bleed the darkest red. Her mother would have had her daughter’s head on a platter for the wanton action she imagined but somethings were worth the hurt. The young female knew the yearning that walked hand and hand with passionate love, from a glance to possible consummation. It was a fire under her skin, a burn that leached the warmth from her extremities to deposit it between her legs. When he looked at her, life stopped suddenly and flushed her face ablaze.

Propriety, decorum, chastity. Each word had been drummed into a thick skull from a young age, nailed into her will when it was apparent that she matured at a faster rate. The constriction of morals that had been inflicted upon her thoughts and feelings had come too little too late. Desire rippled along her skin like the undulation of a cat stretching. She no more gave these stogy ideals weight then would a bird allow itself to be yoked to a plow. Yet, she tried. For her father, her Amad waiting in the Halls by Mahal’s side and elder siblings, she had tried. It was conceivable that there was too much Man in her blood than Dwarf.

Every time she looked at him, Rota wanted him. So her Dwarf, her family, was going to have to become used to that. It wasn't going change, no matter how hard he attempted to put her off. _Some_ people thought or tried to convince her dreams of her love aren't real just because they weren't set in stone or metal. Dreams are real but they are made of viewpoints, of images, of memories and puns and lost hopes.

Fian had been particularly cutting, embarrassing her with tales of her Burin’s adventures with Dale’s endless trollops. He had even made accusations that there was a half breed child with her Dwarf’s nose in Erebor house because Burin didn’t want the responsibility. Rota knew that Fian was such Troll dung because he had not been allowed to heckle Thorin Stonehelm. It was written somewhere that all brothers much be a total cuffnut to any male that catches their sister’s eye.

Rota stopped at the level, her hand on the wall as she reviewed her last thought. It was hard to endeavor forth when she met derision from her brother and indifference from Burin himself. Burin would speak to her only if she made a point to do so first, then barely meeting her eyes. Her parents had dreamed once, not together, never at first. Later, when they found how seamless their dreaming worlds fit, shared pasts of hunger and bitter cold became fertile soil for new life and budding love. Fili and Sigrid had dreamed of a love for themselves and children would grow in their love. Rota knew she could convince Burin their love might be the same, _if he gave her a chance_.

“Where are you off too, dear girl.”

Rota whirled around to see Gimli, son of Gloin heading in a different direction, most likely the barracks. He was a stout Dwarf of her heritage, the same bearing of honor that was ingrained in every son of Durin. A true bulbous nose and bushy brows of a Dwarf where Rota and Kara favored their Mannish mother, Gili was a prize for any female. Grown fully into his braids, he was a stalwart champion of her secret love. It was a shame that Eliel, her Elf cousin from Ered Luin had not found him to her liking.

“Restless.” Rota replied in hurry as she wrapped her shawl tighter about her body. She had not bound herself in stays before leaving, nor thought of what it would mean if someone spotted her. “I had a letter from Eliel. She is in Rivendell with Togn until Durin’s day.”

The mention of Kili’s eldest daughters brought Gimli’s smiles that his impressive red beard couldn’t hide. He had a secret affection for Eliel, escorting her when she spent a year in Lake Town with Rota and Kara. So near in age and thought, the trio had become very close friends for nigh twenty years. Eliel had earned Rota’s unending affection for the two years Burin had stayed Ered Luin with her family after Erebor lapsed into mourning for its queen. No Dwarrowdam was given approach without earning a knot in the face from a quick fist. Burin had come back disappointed, but he had come back unclaimed.

“It is a shame that I cannot go see her. The hour is late. Should you not be abed?” His concern was palpable as he took a step forward. “Are you ill?”

“No! No, No!” Rota held a hand to stop his advance, shaking her head in denial. “I was…I was.. going for something to eat.”

It was a lie, a bad one, but it was the only thing she could think of quickly. The kitchens were in the same general direction. Gimli’s head bobbled in agreement, even as he stretched and yawned out his exhaustion.

Looking at her again, he smiled a sleepy grin. “Would you like for me to escort you?”

“No, dear one, you were seeking your bed before you chanced upon me. Get you gone.” Rota told him with a laugh and shooing motions to head to the barracks.

They parted one from the other as Rota walked on her way. She wondered if her Amad would have been so calm under these conditions. The more a daughter knows about the details of her mother's life without flinching or whining, the stronger the daughter. Rota knew of her mother, had heard the tales growing up and the shushing to stop the embarrassing ones that her Aunt Tilda loved to tell. Sigrid had grown in Lake Town, found love in a Dwarf. The tale sounds like a happy one if that were all that was said, yet it wasn’t a happy childhood. There had been pain, fear, starvation and desperation. Yes, all those things had shaped a Queen worthy of any throne.

By the Dwarrows who looked to Queen Sigrid as the mollifying influence during the King’s subjective moods, many approached her before even thinking of the King. Rota remembered their quiet asking, attempting to give advice for one guild over another, to her mother’s laughing remonstration. The battles fought in the Water Chamber between her children could escalate from words to fists and only Sigrid’s placid tone would sooth them. So much out of time, so many memories of a life and love joined with too much laughter.  

It was the hardest part of life when someone you love dies. It was how Rota knew that her parents had loved hard with no regrets. Her father, a strong Dwarrow of firm convictions, inwardly crumbled. The scabs of the runes that bracketed his eyes had long since fell away, leaving only the tale upon skin. Fili breathed, he ate, drank ale with the others of Thorin’s company but…there was no life in his body. The brilliant flame of his life was extinguished the day her mother’s broken body was brought back to the Mountain.

Rota stopped her progress to lean into the wall of the corridor as the old memories assailed her. It was painful, the memories of her mother and watching the shell of her father imitate life. It was Fili’s decline that had finally allowed Balin his opportunity, to catch her Adad unware to pass the resolution for the Moria expansion. Every Dwarf in Erebor knew that the wily councilor had used the King’s grief for his purpose, had been campaigning for volunteers in every Khazad settlement to join his company like some tinker hawking wares. Those actions had caused a division between her brothers and the Council, breeding mistrust like a weed.  

She pushed the hurt aside, it wouldn’t help her this night. Balin wouldn’t take her love to the long dark of Moira. Rota rushed the final turns, blindly letting fear run her thoughts as she chased a safe haven in the blackness. She arrived at his door, slightly out of breath, and completely avowed to her purpose. Her hand hovered over the wood for a moment, realizing that if she knocked it would carry to every other door on this hall. Quietly with a salty grin, she tried the handle only to find the door without bar.

The door eased open, no squeaky hinges. One step, another as she slowly entered, listening for any movement as the smaller room took shape by the light of the glowing fireplace. Suddenly, a hand grabbed hers yanking her forward into the room before she could so much as squeak. Burin tugged her forward before who she was caught up with his recollection. The surprise warped his face in layers of braids, beard and lax skin.

“What are you doing here?!” He rasped as she quickly closed the door to prevent the sound from travelling.

Rota had caught him halfway to bed, his tunic was a memory as was his boots. The long plain of his furry chest lay bare to her gaze, the first time in her life that she had seen him in this state. Burin’s trousers stopped her visual trek, the buttons marginally attempted to keep decency in place to end at his stockinged feet. The webbed color of the homemade knit made her smile as she recognized Gimli’s mother’s pearled craft.

Pulling herself from the brink of his body, Rota’s gaze meet him square. She was taller than most, yet could look him in the eye. “I had.. I had to talk to you!”

His eyes shifted down and away, a subservient cast that Rota recognized from others, yet hated upon him. Burin was no servant to her, she had never gone to him to serve her after her mother’s death. Not when in her secret heart of hearts, Rota had wanted him to come of his own accord…To say, to swear with a bachelor’s braid in his hair that he would take the task of being her shield. Or that he would give her his heart.

“It could have waited until the morning’s light, Princess.” There was a hunch to his shoulders as he walked to the long bench that held his things. “Did anyone see you? Have you any idea what might be said if your father found out you were here? Your grandmother? Your brothers will wear my stones as a trophy!”

The sentiment was rough behind his speech and for truth, the idea of his losing his stones did not appeal, not when she had thoughts on their immediate use. Her brothers would gladly take his braids for what they would view as a betrayal to the family. No matter that Burin had been faceted into this life along with their Adad and Irak’Adad Kili or that Rota, herself, was to blame. For his years, they would argue that Burin knew better than to entertain her in his own environs. _Hypocrites_.

“Then don’t tell them!” She argued the point, stalking him even as he retreated to put the bench between them. “I couldn’t wait until the morning, it would have been much too late.”

“Leave, Princess!” He looked to the unbarred door, then back at her. “Dwarrowdams have been estranged for parading about a male’s quarters who is no relative!”

Rota felt that his bark held no teeth, just a slight fear for being found. There were only so many ways to entice a stubborn male or the Lady Olrun advised in loud contemplation in the Water Chamber one summer’s eve. The round robin of stories on how she had finally claimed the Captain of the Guard were legend.

She placed herself between him and the door. “What care I for banishment if you will be gone to Dwarrowdelf!?”

A wealth of thought and care made the journey over his face. The pinching at the eyes, the concern and misery. He took a deep breath then another, his mighty chest bellowing out under the force of his mental reservations. Bracing herself, Rota watched him wipe a hand down his face, then frown over his body’s exposure. Quickly, he tossed on a shirt.

“The Queen’s guard is defunct, my Princess.” The sadness of the truth was still sad, no matter how thick the coating. It wasn’t in Burin’s nature to hide behind anything. “With no Queen to guard…. Others have all gone. Uri and Silinde have moved to Dale with their children. Reklar has left but will most likely end up in Ered Luin with Kili now that the Firebeards are being a nuisance.”

“That is an excuse.” She growled, it was the only register her voice would take. So clogged with tears, it was a wonder anything came out.

Rota turned away to stare at the door, as a horrid feeling swept through her body. Clutching her shawl closer for protection, the determination that pushed her from her rooms tonight began to flag. If he cared naught of her… A Dwarrowdam was capable of great stubbornness, and greater love. Their heart was the foundation stone, the strength to shore up impossible levees and bring down empires. _But it could still break…_

Looking down at the floor, she heard him shuffle behind her. “Why are you _really_ leaving? To get away from me and my common behavior?”

Please, deny this! Rota thought as tears broke dam to stream down her rounded cheeks. The wet would kink her chin hairs atrociously, making her try and rub them into her skin before she heeled her eyes to block the headwater.

“No, NO! Never say that,... you care..” There was a pause, a wrenching of sound like a Dwarrow who fought himself. The clearer tones lapped at her as if he straightened himself and his thoughts. “You are a Princess of Erebor. The Athane, beloved and true, was a Princess of Dale. You could _never_ be common.”

“Is that all I am to you?” Rota whirled on him, her hands on her hips. “No matter my faults, no matter my transgressions, I am little more than my lineage?” Angry at everything and unable to stop herself, Rota stalked him across the room again to get into his beard. “Daughter of Fili, Daughter of ..Sigrid. I am Rota, first and foremost. I am myself! If you see that I _care_ , you might unblind yourself to know that it is more!”

She sneered at him, frustrated for once that there were things beyond her control. Rota was a Dwarrowdam, a female of her royal line, yet her dark half made her more than just a Dwarrowdam. The fires of her needs might been banked but only this Dwarrow might extinguish them. Mannish blood, Dwarvish blood, two lines that found in her a battleground of raucous proportions. A wild spirit of rock and water, two divided elements that were a part of her that gave her strength to stare back and proclaim herself an individual.

He only looked away for a moment, trying to marshal a sensible argument only to fail. The stoic mask of his indifference slipped, and she fell, letting go of the raging torrent within. If she would not make him see her affections, Rota promised herself that she would leave and let go. If love was not accepted, it became a shackle. She could not attempt a claim upon his beard if he truly didn’t want her.

“This is too crude, your feelings do not extend so far.” Burin reeled from her, as if the distance might stop her from speaking. “There are many years ahead of you and one day a Dwarrow might find that himself a place in your heart. You might want him for your own.. that he might be more than the Dwarrow who failed to protect your mother.”

Rota followed him, placing a hand upon his back. “There is no blame, Burin. None! You did not fail my mother, it was an accident. Nothing more.” The hand turned into a fist, a need to grasp any part of him. “The years ahead I would spend with you at my side, marali! All those years that Mahal grants us!”

Tugging him free of the past’s hold, she pulled him to face her. Captivated by him as he was from her, Rota held him by his braid as she kissed his lips for the first time. His mouth moved passionately over hers, urging her lips apart. It was a kiss to shake stars from the sky until they fell blazing to earth and level the mountains back to basest rock. His hands found her, entwining himself in her curves as he had in her heart.

“I have loved you close and from afar. Here and everywhere.” He kissed her lips, her cheeks, the soft lids of her eyes. “There is no escape from you, dearest Rota, Ered Luin, Moria nor any settlement of Khazad. For truth, I cannot fight it anymore. Claim me as you will, I shall never leave you.”

It was clear that neither of them could control what was happening. Love could never be contained...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was part of the epilogue for The Land of Might Have been. Upon numerous rereads, I thought it would work better as a side story.   
> I always intended for Sigrid to have a daughter as her last child. When I started writing Burin in the main body, I thought, wouldn’t it be cool if he feel in love with Fili/Sigrid’s daughter. Since in my mind the daughter would marry Stonehelm and she would give birth to Durin VII, it would create a love triangle (which I hate with the heat of a 1000 UTIs) unless there was a twin. Halfway through I realized that Rota was starting to read like Herja & she isn’t. I wanted to show that she was more Mannish in her feelings than Dwarf.  
> Marali – object of love or passion.


	9. Dorlad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You’ll shoot the moon, put out the sun;  
> When you love someone  
> ~Bryan Adams – When You Love Someone~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The death of Dorlad, Ranger of the North

 

Rohan, near the Fords of Isen ..TA 3019

 

Dorlad sat back in the saddle; the mare underneath him pawed the ground in boredom. The wind had lost its teeth today, but the clouds to the west spelled snow in coming days.  Smiling, he leaned forward to rub a hand long the horse’s pattern neck in affection as the mane slapped at his face.  The great body settled as the mare blew out a frosted breath, content that her rider understood her woes.  Rossiel, he had named her, daughter of rain.  The dappled hide of white and gray-black captured the high thunderheads that rolled over the Mark promising rain and sometimes snow. 

Rossiel’s dam had been the last foal of King Bain’s chestnut stallion, Isen. A gift to an old friend who looked nary a day older since their parting.  Like her mother, Rossiel served him well, loving Rohan’s steppes as much her forbearers, Isen and Tauriel’s mare, Gilesgal had.  The mare Celeb, which the Elf lady of Ered Luin had sent the King of Dale upon the silver anniversary of his reign had spawned a line of horses that rivaled the Rohirrim.  Dale’s reputation for its trade had quickly established itself once more under the wise leadership of King Bard the Dragonslayer and his son, Bain.  Old friends, Dorlad thought as he took up the reins, old friends who have long since left this world for the next.

He had the good fortune to see Bain before he let go of life.  They had been close, sharing adventures before the Prince took a wife and had children. Bain travelled to the road with himself and Estel many years ago. Aragon, Dorlad mentally corrected, the boy had become a Man and claimed his rightful name. His friend had rode for home after the slave uprising in Gondor, thinking of his family and their needs before a young Man’s lust for adventure. It was later, after Arnorra had died in Helm’s Deep, his child of Alfgivia, that Dorlad made the journey to see his companion again.   Lake Town had been home to the Dunedain when Bain was its lord, more convivial than any other kingdom of the ranger’s experience. When Aragorn asked him to come with him to Rohan and Gondor, Dorlad could never refuse. The Great Evil stirring in the East must be watched most carefully.

Dorland missed Bain and Kili, his friends who he had known over his long years.  Kili had settled into his life with his lady, living far to the west to watch over the Durin’s Folk colony.  His daughters, Dorlad had met in Rivendell during their fostering when he had come home to see his family.  A lively trio with their father’s looks and their mother’s sense of justice, yet it was mayhem in their wake.  There was a place at the Lord of Ered Luin’s table whenever Dorlad needed to lifted a pint of ale.  Maybe when this year was done, the Road would see him in the Blue Mountains again if the King of Rohan’s son took a wife and put a child in her belly.

Dorlad smiled at that thought as the second Marshall’s Eored set forth once more to meet up with the scouts who rode the Fords. Age was not a number for his tribe, no matter that gray had overrun his head to force the black hair into retreat. Dunedain lived upon the face of Arda for years longer than their neighbors. At hundred sixty years, he had lived, loved, seen his daughter marry to bear Dernheim twins, Elfhind and Erkenbrand.  Tergil was a term that was used to describe his child but Dorlad didn’t accept that title.  His daughter had not been less for being of minor blood, nor her children after her. Arnorra possessed a beautiful soul and losing her to age had been most painful.  Whether she knew of his role in her life, was uncertain yet she never questioned him for his presence.

Watching Elfhind marry Theoden son of Thengal, however, had concerned him.  She had loved the Horse lord, wanting no other than he.  Dernheim couldn’t refuse his Prince, no matter Dorlad’s protests.  A pall was falling over the south each year, fed from Mordor to the east.  For his child to marry into a ruling house would cement her place, making it impossible for Dorlad to spirit her from the rising danger. But his daughter’s child didn’t listen, loving Theoden with all her heart. Theoden had loved her too, Dorlad knew, doting upon her every wish.  After his last visit to Edoras, it might have been a blessing that Elfhind had died at Theodred’s birth and never saw the great wreak that her love had become at Grima’s hands. Still, he sung the lament for his grandchild and mourned yet again the cost of his blood that allowed him to outlive his progeny.

Seasons and turnings of the world changed Man, yet many lived beyond this to hope for a brighter day.

A horn blew in the distance, forcing Dorlad from his musings.  Four riders pushed their mounts hard across the plain, bending lower over the straining withers.  Threodred stood up in his stirrups far up the column, pushing back his helm to see into the distance.  He resembled Dorlad not at all, too much Rohir blood after the intervening generations to allow for the Numenorian traits to shine in his statue.  That he was tall was a given, the race of Man still towered over the small folk of Hobbits and Dwarves. He is a strong lad, Dorlad thought, wise where his father’s rule was beginning to fail.  Theodred would take up the mantle of King in the Golden Hall and rule justly.  

The riders reached Dorlad’s great grandson, speaking low in Rohirric.  There was much back and forth in low tones that he couldn’t decipher. There were rumors after the great muster two days before of troops gathering at the Fords, enemy ranks of Mordor. Goblin postured, they stood tall in the daylight for all to see the white hand upon their brows.  He had heard nothing more as many packed their roles and waybags before mounting their steeds.  The animals understood where their riders might not.  A fight had come to the Men of Rohan.

Threodred shouted at the front of the host, waving his horn.  Suddenly his actions were answered by a collogue of sound from the other companies.  As one, the riders of Rohan shouted their prince’s name and followed him into watery hell.

**88**88**

A long day of death.

Eight companies and another of bowman took the Ford, charging into the freezing wash with the tall black spire in the distance.  The wizard watches, he knows, Dorlad concluded as he made the far bank and saw the death that had awaited them.  Saruman wasn’t massing his army, his troops were gathered and entrenched.  Hales of arrows shot into the horse bound companies flying towards them.  Many fell, the screams of the dying animals created a thrashing barrier to protect the charging Dunlandings who ran from Isenguard’s fore ground. 

Then the fight really started. Theodred fought with manic courage, punishing anyone foolish enough to come in range of his great sword. The Eored loved him for his fearlessness, and Grima hated him with a fierce intensity scared Dorlad.

The trees erupted, mounted enemy scattering small branches and leaves as they rode hard into the sunlight. They died just as hard, hammered and battered as they entered the open space.  Orc mounted Wargs speared into the companies, scattering the fear maddened horses.  The bowmen on the ground fired arrow after arrow but the thick muscular ruffs protected the beasts.  Grimbold rallied some of the splintered forces on the western bank, charging back towards Theodred in the center. They scissored the force into ribbons, cutting down the Wargs with the speed of horse and pike then riding into their Dunlanding reinforcements.  Time slowed for them as they killed then caught back up as they tried to take a breath.  

The Eored were defending their position as the Goblins grew bold, more and more of them pushing in hard and trying to surround the Rohir force. The only way clear was retreat, and the Kings son gave no sign of even seeing the line of retreat. His sword swung tirelessly, his armor black with Uruk blood. The fighting became a knot of swarming riders around pockets of the enemy, maces swinging to crush skulls in their helmets.

Every heartbeat seemed to double the noise until the crashes and squeals of metal on metal battered against his ears. It was an old music to him, a song he’d known from his earliest memories, like the half-remembered crooning of a nurse. He smiled at the thought, amused at his own fancies as he took the fight hard at an Orc. The mind was a strange thing.

Dorlad took position at his princely lineage’s flank, cutting down any who got too close to him. The battle flowed about them until some Uruk screamed in Black Speech something he didn’t understand. The Dunedain slashed, parried away the White Hand that pushed against his guard.  He might have lighter hair of an old man, but his muscles stretched and heated with energy. Their foe converged, several throwing themselves on pikes and swords to mow a path to Theodred.  Elfhind’s son didn’t see it, didn’t know that the enemy had singled him out for an ending purpose.

Did they know, Dorlad thought as he felt Rossiel kick a Dunlanding who tried to sneak up on her with an axe.  Did Saruman or Sauron know that Theodred was his progeny?  A lost son of Isildur? As an heir to Gondor and a Prince of Rohan, his blood might unite the southern Kingdom once more.

A call of retreat blew in the distance as Theodred wheeled his mount about to face Dorlad.  There was a cut on his brow, his armor rent with black blood and gore.  But he smiled and shook his head at Dorlad, surprised and yet not to see him there.  He had been a fixture in Rohan, all who heard his name knew him to be Dunedain. He rode for the King of Rohan rather than his people, his reasons were his own.

The companies fell back across the Fords with Grimbold still fighting at the banks. The Dunlendings were intent upon the Marshall and his besieged force. It was violence as they knew it best, against men who understood the meaning of spilled blood. Each one barreling out of the trees roared a challenge as they saw the fighting mêlée, forcing against the battle's edges and the armored Rohir horsemen. The heavy steel mace sank deep into the barrel chest, making the animal squeal and stagger. Dorlad saw a spray of fine red mist as one horse reared, its lungs torn.

Piles of bodies were lying about thanks to powerful sweeps of Riddermark steel. Rossiel jump two that wiggles across the ground with enough fight still to try for the bowmen close by. He could see the Men were grinning as they fired, their eyes wild with battle lust. Dorlad could see him in the distance, strong before a world of pain that wouldn’t end.  The washed shallows were not so kind now that they were in retreat, the icy rocks cutting into forelegs of the horses in a mad scramble to Rohan. Theodred turned south to a hillock with Dorlad right behind him. There was excellent cover to be had that he knew from earlier skirmishes.  It was defensible, steep up to the plateau for a good vantage point.

 

They rode hard, mustering the splintered forces together as they went. Weak from their wounds, they rode with their heads lolling, the big warhorses flying along. The Wargs and Uruks on foot gave chase though not so many now. Where is Lord Eomer? Lord Elfhelm?  Dorlad screamed at Rossiel for more speed to make sure that the teams of Wildmen didn’t flank them to the left. Theodred looked back to Dorlad, pointing to the knoll that was fast approaching.  They were almost there.  A few horses and Men screamed at his back, straggling victims of the gaining horde.  The company would get there; they would make it.   

The ground rose before them as Rossiel gathered her last to leap up the incline rather than running.  It slowed down the ones who followed, the ranks stumbling back to be cut down by Dunlendings on their tails. The Dorlad shouted to the others who followed to draw their bows to try and knock out some of the pursuers, keep them away from the precipice.  The Dunedain reached the top in time to see the mottled bodies climbing over the far edge to gain the high ground before the Rohir. The high screech blasted the air as they ran towards the dismounting horsemen.  Taking a knee, he fired arrow after arrow at the throng, trying to make a difference before the main party reached them. 

He was never a true marksmen, fair to be generous but not upon the same level as Kili or Tauriel.  A few went wide, a few caught the target square.  More arrows joined his as the Eored fired from their horses. 

“Rohirrim! To arms!”  Theodred shouted, pulling his sword to face the charge. 

Dorlad rushed to his side, cleaving two of the monsters at a time. Forgive me father, he thought as he lifted his sword again and again to cut, to kill, and protect a child of his line.  Dirhael would not acknowledge a Tergil, couldn’t understand why Dorlad returned to Rohan for them.  The Chieftain had never understood that love that brought Dorlad back to try and help them, to save them from an ugly world. Aragorn had understood, he knew there was a price for loving others. Sometimes the price was life.

Dorlad caught the flash of an Uruk sword throwing a dagger at it as two large of that breed pressed into Theodred’s defense.  Tiring as he was, the King’s son was failing, his sword arm all but spent.  When the large one with the White Hand upon his chest raised his hand to strike at Theodred’s back, Dorlad left behind him to put his own body into harm’s way.  The Uruk was surprised but was unable to halt the swing as the Dunedain tried to raise his arm to late. Elfhind’s son grunted behind him, taking a blow of sorts, never knowing about the blade that cut down into Dorlad’s shoulder. 

Curved Ram horns blasted a call as the advance circled the hillock to cut down the Uruks.  Elfheim bellowed ‘Theodred’, his prince’s name over and over, as the battle continued.  The monstrosity yanked away his sword pulling Dorlad’s life blood with the metal.  Gushing from the leather, he gasped from the movement. The heat and cold of the battle settled into his trunk with thundering heart and escaping breath.  Too much blood, too close to the heart, he thought as he began to sink to the ground. 

Dorlad fell away as Theodred turned at the last moment to deflect the sword thrust into his side.  It caught him there at the hip, making him lurch forward from the wound.  His sandy blonde hair was streaked with sweat to plaster to his head. The King’s son grabbed the Uruk’s blade to hold it fast, while thrusting a long knife in his attacker’s gullet. He looked down at the ranger at his feet, with a wordless cry.  He knelt down close to him, clutching at the gash at his hip. The deep sound of approaching Rohirrim thundered across the open ground as Eomer’s company raced to join them.  Too late for him, but a chance for Theodred to survive.

Love is the one thing we’re capable of perceiving that transcends the individual parcels of time and space.  It was love that brought him to this battlefield, which kept him close to the Eored.  If his life was required for his family, Dorlad could think of no greater death.  Watching Theodred breathe as Elfheim bind up the wounds to his leg and lower torso, he raised his head and summoned his endurance to take him farther. His body was finished, but he remembered his grandmother, Ivorwen, telling him a Man’s will could carry him long after the weak flesh had given up.

Dorlad reached across the bodies to touch Theodred’s hand one last time.  In love, in friendship the Dunedain let go of his life still clenching the Prince’s hand… content in the knowledge that Theodred would live on to fight another day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the canon, Theodred is cut down by Uruks from Isengard. Saruman was determined to kill both him and Eomer, possibly leaving Eowyn to Grima. Anyway, with Theodred living beyond the battle of the Fords, the scope changes very much going into Return of the King.  
> Queen Elfhind didn't have any lineage listed that I can find. It made sense if she was from Gondor since Theoded lived there as a child. Making her a sister to Erkenbrand ties her into Helm's Deep as Erkenbrand was known to be the child of the Lord of the Westfold.

**Author's Note:**

> I own none of this.. but most of the characters are just too much fun to leave alone.
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you so much for reading !!!..comments are encouraged and kudos are always welcome!


End file.
